The Coldest Winter
by Geale
Summary: The sequel to "Of Pain and Sweetness". Winter has descended upon Gondor and Aragorn and Faramir are struggling with their relationship. Courage is a difficult thing to muster as the season brings not only snow. Aragorn/Faramir SLASH.
1. Snowing

**The story: **This is a sequel to "Of Pain and Sweetness" and I highly recommend you to read that one first, or this won't make much sense. Aragorn and Faramir are struggling with their relationship as winter brings both snow and unexpected events.

**Warnings: **Angst and slash! (Lovely combination.) If this is not to your liking, please leave! There are lots of other stories to read out there.

**Disclaimer:** Tolkien invented them, they're his – I just thought they'd make a great couple.

UPDATE: November -09, revision resumed! You'll still find some random inconsistencies in spelling etc here and there. No biggies, though.

Enjoy!

**-oooo-**

**The Coldest Winter**

**Chapter One – Snowing,**

**Minas Tirith, III 3019**

Snow was falling heavily on Minas Tirith. Cold winds blew in from the north, passed over Mirkwood, sped through the lands of Rohan, and wrapped Gondor in a bitter embrace. Streams and lakes froze and night settled quickly. Every blanket and rug was looked for and produced from chests, attics, lofts and cellars. Children were kept indoors along with the elders and the sick. Even the horses grew cold in their stables and needed constant supervision. When they had absolutely no reason to venture outdoors, people stayed inside to huddle, close together, in front of the hearth fires. It was, by far, the coldest winter anyone in the White City could remember.

-oooo-

In his office, Aragorn was seated behind his desk. A fire was crackling cheerfully in the fireplace to his left, but even with it, the King had drawn a woollen blanket around himself to keep out the chill. Normally, his desk would be covered with letters, maps and documents of every kind, but the weather prevented most messengers from extensive travelling.

_In a way, one could say we are isolated_.

A white city, lost in the white snow.

It was, however, still important to make sure that the people of Gondor did not suffer. That was why Aragorn had ordered a somewhat large number of his men to ride out, despite the aggressive winter, and report back to him anything of importance. Those were the only kind of messages he received now. They were not many and he knew them by heart, but still he eyed them again: a small bridge had given up underneath the weight of the snow and several trees had fallen in Ithilien, due to the winds.

Thankfully, no word of spreading illness had reached him yet. Since the cold had come upon them swiftly and taken them by surprise, Aragorn feared that the Gondorians were not at all prepared. Autumn had been beautiful, with clear blue skies and gentle sunlight. It had seemed like it would last forever, but then, suddenly and brutally, winter had arrived without warning.

Everything would be seen to in due time, Aragorn comforted himself. His men had orders to immediately repair any houses or bridges that could not stand against the wind, and the trees would be dealt with when the weather was kinder to cheeks, hands and feet. In the meantime, he could only concentrate on affairs regarding his city, and he could only hope that Éomer and his people fared well in Rohan.

-oooo-

Hurried steps in the hallway claimed Aragorn's attention and he looked up as the door opened and a dripping, snow-covered Steward stepped inside the office. Faramir raised a gauntleted hand and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He was breathing heavily and looked completely drenched. Water was slowly forming little pools and puddles on the stone floor underneath him, and the firelight eagerly mirrored itself in them.

Faramir quickly shed his long cloak, hung it over a chair and placed his gloves on top. Then he pulled his arrangement closer to the fire. He inspected his boots but apparently found nothing wrong with them and so, he raised his head to meet the King's gaze.

"It. Is. Freezing. Outside," the Steward informed him with a shudder. "It is completely impossible to see anything because of the snow, the streets are icy and hideously slippery, and when you finally imagine that you are in no risk of slipping, some wind attacks you and topple you over!" he finished and threw his arms out in a gesture of frustration.

"And the people?"

"They seem fine. We repaired a couple of windows and made sure the stables are warm enough for the horses, but all in all, everything is under control," said Faramir.

"But you are cold, soaked and hungry," Aragorn surmised.

The Steward really was an endearing sight where he now was standing, too far away from the fire to get warm, trying hard to be effective and so, sacrificing his own comfort.

Faramir shifted slightly. "I sent the men away to their homes or rooms, and I came here directly to report to you, my lord."

"And so you are here: cold, soaked and hungry?" Aragorn ascertained, and felt a small smile tug at his lips.

"Well," began Faramir, but he was silenced by Aragorn who raised a hand. His Steward could most likely be well on his way to freeze to death before he chose to admit it.

"Come here," he beckoned and watched as Faramir made his short way to the desk, rounded it and stopped in front of him.

Aragorn inspected the man's features. He was still so young and he was so eager to please, very anxious to be of service and to prove his worth. Denethor had not been a kind father to him. Aragorn sighed. Then he lifted his hand again and as Faramir bowed, he let his fingers brush against the damp forehead. Water ran in small trails from the masses of copper hair and made their way down Faramir's throat and neck.

"I have missed you today, I am glad you have come back," Aragorn said softly.

"I confess I am pleased to be indoors again," admitted Faramir.

Outside it grew darker every second, and soon the black of night would surround the whole City. It was hard to know precisely what time it was but from the growl that escaped Faramir's stomach, Aragorn decided it was dinnertime.

"We should find you something to eat," he smiled, letting his fingertips travel down to the unshaven cheek of the Steward. "But first, I think…" he trailed off as Faramir stepped nearer and bowed his head even lower.

"You think..?" Faramir spoke in a very low voice.

Aragorn raised his other hand and placed it on the other cheek. Water, transforming into steam, rose silently from Faramir's cloak and boots, and drifted lazily around the room. The firelight gleamed in his Steward's hair and tinted it with a golden hue. Aragorn could feel the other man's breath wafting over him, and his heart swelled with joy at the closeness. It was never easy, but it was beautiful.

Aragorn slowly pulled him closer, and closer, until their mouths touched in a careful meeting. For all the water, Faramir's lips were warm and soft. The King held him like this, with a hand on either cheek, as he let his tongue slip out and caress the lips so tenderly pressed against his own. He felt Faramir's hands work their way into his own hair, and then the younger man sank to his knees and Aragorn became the one who must bend down. Faramir kissed him back, opened the King's mouth with his own tongue, leaning in and asking for more. Aragorn shivered as a pleasure long denied announced its presence.

'Perhaps I can do this,' he thought dizzily. Courage grew within him as Faramir claimed his lower lip and sucked on it demandingly.

_He knows me, he will not judge… _

Faramir now tugged gingerly at his hair, pulling Aragorn towards him, evidently wanting to deepen the kiss. The King of Men plunged his tongue into the open mouth and felt every intelligent line of thought flee his mind.

_I can… do…_

When the two men broke apart, Aragorn felt like he was floating in the air, much like the snow outside. Faramir was gazing up at him with burning eyes and such a rare smile on his face that Aragorn was almost taken aback. He cleared his throat.

"We should get you out of those clothes."

Faramir raised an eyebrow, but kept on smiling. "If you insist, my liege."

"I mean, you should change and then we will have dinner," said Aragorn and felt his courage waver as reality crept upon him again. "Will you assist me?"

He saw Faramir's stunning smile slowly fade as he rose and helped his King to stand. Aragorn felt wobbly as he took a few steps and he leaned on Faramir for support. The Steward willingly gave it and he escorted Aragorn towards the door. He stopped, though, when they were only a couple of feet away.

"Aragorn," he said, "for how long will you fight this?" He turned and looked straight into Aragorn's eyes.

The King felt as if he was hit by a club. "I… Faramir," he began but having no idea what to say next, he fell silent.

"Remember that night, Aragorn, when you fell? You asked me to stay and I will, but I will not deny – no, that is not what we are doing – I cannot accept – this. Kisses, maybe some quick embrace, but nothing more, and I know we both _want more_."

With that, he reached out and opened the door. Aragorn found he could not speak, and when he, a short while later, was seated behind the table and awaiting dinner, he still had no words to offer. Not that it mattered, since he seemed to be dining alone.

**tbc**

**Please review, it is always welcome!**


	2. Freezing

**Thank you for your kind words! Onward!**

**Chapter 2 – Freezing**

"I am sorry, my lord. It seems there is not much I can do at the moment."

The blond healer appeared sincere as he apologised for his shortcomings. Or perhaps that was the wrong choice of word since Aragorn from the beginning had been told the prospects were not that great.

"There are some other herbs that might ease your pain more efficiently, but they are sent to us from Rivendell, and in this weather…" The healer gestured to the window and shrugged.

Aragorn followed his gaze. He was seated on a high bed – it made it easier for him to rise that way – but it did not matter from which angle you looked out the window. All there was to see was a thick, white mist: it was snowing. The never-abating wind brought along masses of snow, with which it attacked the City vigorously.

His fate, Aragorn could manage; his legs would not get much better if the healers did not come up with a brilliant new cure. That was not what was bothering him now. No, with all this snow, he had not set foot outside the palace walls for weeks and for a former ranger, that was both stressful and wearying at the same time. He felt cabined, weak and useless.

The healer had turned his back to him and was currently rummaging around in his cabinets. Eventually he produced a small glass jar which he presented to the King.

"This might help you, my lord. The leaves are dried, but soak them in lukewarm water for about an hour before you got to bed. Place them on your legs, where the pain is most intense, and make sure they stay put all night. I trust you lie still when you sleep?" he finished.

Aragorn gave the dried, crumpled leaves in the jar a doubting look. Then he raised his eyes to the healer.

"I do not move while sleeping. But then, I do not have much of a choice." he said, much sterner than he had intended.

The healer simply cleared his throat. "I am sorry, my lord, I did not mean to offend you."

"It is fine," Aragorn told him. He accepted the jar and slowly got to his feet. "Thank you," he added, raising the jar a little in some sort of half-hearted sign of gratitude He exited the room and closed the door behind him.

He rested against the wall for a little while, gathering his strength. It was with mixed feelings he was getting used to his situation. Because he _did _need to get used to it - that was certainly clear enough. Of course, he had been forced to get used to many things in his past, so nowadays he was accustomed to it. He was a Man, raised among Elves, a race he respected deeply. He had adapted to their way of living, before he had been forced to realise he was a man after all. _Then_, he had been told he was the heir of Isildur and must come to terms with that. He fought in the War, and now he was King. He really had no choice, did he?

-oooo-

That night, when Aragorn lay in his bed with cold, wet leaves on his legs, he longed for his family. Like a child, he wanted his father close. Elrond would know what to do. He would know what to say and how to react. He would know… how to feel.

Feelings…

…were difficult.

Feelings came unbidden and uninvited. Feelings stirred memories and awoke hidden dreams; they did not care whether you were awake or not. Feelings regarding a great many things, Aragorn reflected. There were matters of state to deal with… and of course this constant snowing. Also, servants and friends and family and – others. People in general; there were always a lot to think about, things that stirred up feelings…

Aragorn let out a heavy sigh. Who was he fooling? He turned his head to the other side. In the darkness – he had blown out the candle – he could barely make out the curtains covering the windows. Somewhere out there, in the icy cold, was Faramir, peacefully sleeping – hopefully – in a tent – hopefully – sheltered – hopefully – from the wind. It had been his own doing of course, since Aragorn would never have sent _him_ out on one of those necessary missions. Aragorn had been told by one of Faramir's men the next morning, which was the day after _that_ night - the night that had ended so abruptly after such a promising beginning. Six days ago. And it was Aragorn's fault.

It was his fault for being so damn proud! For so long he had held back, not daring to open up to the Stwerad because he himself was so much less than before. Sure, it was obvious to everyone who met him that he walked with difficulty and was in pain during most of his waking hours, but they, they were – others.

Faramir would see, truly _see_ him, for what he was, and he would touch him - touch him in places no one had touched him for months. Not since the last time, in the tavern after several glasses of wine, and later, when they ended up in the same narrow bed together in the soldier's quarters.

"No place for a soon-to-be-King," Faramir had said in a moment of sobriety, excusing his simple lodgings. The soon-to-be-King himself could not have cared less. The War had been won, Sauron was defeated and this was a night of freedom. Any bed would suffice, and it did. It was their first and only night together.

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to shut everything out where he lay now. He concentrated on his breathing, focusing on his legs, using his healer skills to search for pain, or lack of pain, which would be nice for a change. The leaves were still damp and they felt sticky against his skin. He had forgotten to ask the healer if he could cover his legs with a blanket and so risking dislodging every leaf he so carefully had placed there.

A sudden image of Legolas, his elven friend and companion on the Quest, and later in the War, surfaced in his mind. Legolas would laugh at him, not maliciously, but indeed he would laugh – at the whole situation. He would most probably tease him as well.

Grunting, Aragorn reached for the covers, pulled them over himself and decided he needed to go to sleep. Immediately.

-oooo-

The following days dragged on in a haze. The weather changed again; the winds brought no more snow, instead the temperature dropped even lower. The sun itself, in the few moments it appeared between thick, light grey clouds, seemed dimmed, almost frozen. It offered light, but no warmth, and certainly there was no promise of spring in the air.

Travelling became a little less dangerous so the amount of letters Aragorn received increased somewhat. There were no other visitors though, except for the messengers, for it was clear that this winter was unpredictable. And there was no sign of Faramir returning to Minas Tirith.

Aragorn mostly spent his days and nights alone. He cared not for company of any sort, and he cursed the leaves he still soaked and placed on his legs before he fell asleep. He could not tell if they helped, but he could tell he was feeling utterly miserable.

-oooo-

He returned four days later, when evening had already fallen. Noise and clamor from the courtyard below, called Aragorn, who was in his office again, to the window. Stumbling, he got to his feet, not wanting or daring to hope. He saw the horses in the torch lit courtyard, and he let out a sigh of relief when he spotted the Steward, who looked unharmed, among the other men. Faramir exchanged words with the guards, entered through the great doors and then he was out of sight, as suddenly as he had appeared. So very far away, he seemed. Agonisingly distant.

Hesitancy and indecision occupied his mind to such an extent, that this time Aragorn did not hear the footfall in the corridor. Therefore he was startled, and spun around faster than his legs really permitted, when the door flew open and Faramir himself burst into the room.

The two men stood facing each other in silence. Faramir was panting, as if he had been running, and he was staring intently at his King. All of a sudden, he moved, and with a few steps he was so close Aragorn could not have averted his eyes even if he wanted to. Then, Faramir's lips were on his, crushing them with strength Aragorn would never have guessed him capable of.

It was cold, he registered; the Steward's lips, having been exposed to harsh wintry winds, were stiff. They soon grew warmer though, as he pressed them against Aragorn's own. Not waiting for anything, Faramir forced Aragorn's lips apart with his tongue, thrusting deep into the warmth he found there.

He leaned in closer, placing his hands on Aragorn's shoulders, making the King stand with his back against the chilly window-glass. Aragorn really did not mind too much, but he needed to speak, to say something… anything… apologise. He tried to pull his mouth away, but he had no room to move. It was Faramir who spoke instead:

"There will be no words, my lord," he stated in a deep voice, after drawing back ever so slightly. "We will not speak. At all."

Yes, he was quite determined.

**tbc**

**Argh! I ended here, don't be angry... I'll hurry up with chapter 3!**


	3. Exploding

**Believe it or not, but I'm not a great fan of angst, really. And yes, we will have a change of perspective: this is from Faramir's point of view!**

**Chapter 3 – Exploding**

He had not meant to come off so harsh, but now it was done. This was definitely not the way he normally spoke to his King, but Faramir had ridden all day and was in no mood for long talks and discussions. Already he knew what Aragorn wished to say as he had heard the same words over and over again, ever since the day the King had had his accident. Now he was about to resume the kissing, but Aragorn seized his opportunity.

"Faramir," he burst out, "please, wait!" His eyes caught Faramir's and the Steward recognised in them the pain he knew all too well. "We must speak…"

Faramir felt a very atypical anger spread through him; like a wild-fire it began with the smallest spark in his breast, but soon it flamed brightly and burned savagely in his blood. He had had enough of this! With fierce determination he pressed Aragorn even closer to the window-glass.

"No, _no_, Aragorn, we must not speak. I have heard everything you might want to say many times by now and I will not hear it again," he stated. "You are afraid, and of what I am well aware, but I do not want to hear it again!"

Aragorn's eyes shone before him, their grey beauty so intimately entwined with worry and insecurity. The King silently pleaded, to some power it appeared, desperately wishing for something to cling to, some kind of safe ground. He would not offer that, Faramir decided, his anger ready to explode.

"Faramir, you do not understand…" the King began once more.

And there it was: _explosion._

The Steward let go of Aragorn, staggered backwards and threw his arms up in the air.

"I do not understand? _I do not understand?!_" he cried out, staring at the man in front of him. "Have you gone insane Aragorn?! How can you even suggest that _I do not understand?_"

Aragorn watched him in silence. It did not help his mood.

"I have pledged my loyalty to you, as a Steward to his King. I have spent almost every day in your company. I have cared for you, I have served you, I have laughed with you, I have been at your side for many a month now, Aragorn – I know you!" He drew another breath, "I have cared for you and served you because that is what I wish to do," he added, making sure Aragorn knew that was a choice he had made consciously.

The King made no sign to stop him. Faramir eyed him, still in frantic disbelief.

"I know who you are, Aragorn, and this is not you," he said, shaking his head energetically. "Yes, you are proud, but this is not pride, as you want to name it. This is fear. And _you_ do not fear anything!"

He was trembling now, and ironically, a little afraid of himself and at the reaction he might be provoking. Faramir was no hot-tempered man and this outburst was as new to him as it must be to Aragorn.

Boromir might have done it_, _it came to him suddenly. His brother would have shouted like this - that would have been just like him. At the thought, he gathered his strength again. Aragorn seemed to stand frozen in time before him.

"What is it you fear, my lord? That I shall laugh _at _you this time, that I shall, what, come to my senses and reject you because you fell from a horse that trampled all over you – by mistake – and left you injured?" He spat out the words, hating them, but still deeming them necessary. "Is this what you think?" he added, fully emptying his racing mind. His head was spinning so fast he felt dizzy.

Silence.

Outside it was now completely dark. The skies had cleared up, but there was no moon to be seen. The cold winter stars pierced the blackness but could do naught to help the situation.

_I have gone mad_. _I should never have done this._

The fire in the room had almost burned down and the chill was creeping in from underneath the closed door. It was odd, he reflected, that no one had come to see if the King was alright. Someone must have heard his shouting, since the place was full of guards and servants. But here they were, uninterrupted and alone.

The handful of lit candles cast a strange light about the office, bringing forth the shadows more than repressing them. The fire died gradually and soon the embers glowed like heated glass in the hands of a skilled glass-maker.

When someone finally spoke, it was Aragorn.

"I am sorry," he said in a voice so weak it might have been taken for simply a breath. "I am sorry, Faramir."

The King held out a hand, and with it, calling for him, begging him to come closer. Faramir did not feel the stone floor beneath him as he walked forward and again found himself directly in front of the older man.

There were tears in his grey eyes and Aragorn was pale enough to match the stars. "Forgive me."

Faramir said nothing. His breathing had slowed down now and was almost back to normal. His outburst seemed very far away though he knew it was only moments ago he had lashed out at Aragorn. He felt detached from every proper emotion and sensation.

"You are right," said Aragorn quietly. "Everything you said is true… I am afraid, which does not happen very often, but it is true." A faint smile ghosted across his face. "Forgive a daft King, will you, Faramir?"

It was such a small smile, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it served to waken Faramir from his disconnected awareness. He let out a long breath he did not know he had been holding. Collapsing in the arms of his King he nodded frantically, assuring him that everything was fine.

"Yes Aragorn, you are forgiven. And forgive me as well, for screaming at you."

"No, that is impossible – there is nothing to forgive," Aragorn said, holding him close. "I am very grateful to you for what you said. I believe I needed to hear it," he admitted, bringing his hand up to stroke the copper coloured hair of his Steward. "Very grateful indeed," he repeated. "But, dearest," he let Faramir go and looked at him, the smile growing in his features, "I do need to sit down. I have been standing for a long time."

If he had not before been fully aware of the situation, Faramir now came round. Of course Aragorn must be tired as he had not sat down the entire time. Reaching for his chair, Faramir helped Aragorn sit and the King leaned back, finally relaxing.

"Come here," he asked.

Faramir knelt beside him, placed his head carefully in his King's lap, and Aragorn once again began caressing his hair. A peaceful stillness settled around them, and the embers crackled lazily in the fireplace. It was growing colder, but none of them dared to disturb the silence, Faramir suspected. It was also getting quite late and he had not had anything to eat since he came back from his mission in South Ithilien, where he had been rebuilding some sheds and repaired houses. He was happy though, happier than he would have believed possible only hours ago.

Aragorn's hand had kept up its stroking, but now it sneaked under Faramir's chin and turned his face upward. The dim candlelight accentuated Aragorn's features, darkening his hair and illuminating his skin. His eyes shone once more, but this time they were free of agony. Faramir thought him beautiful, the most handsome man he had ever known.

After a moment, Aragorn warily leaned down, appearing to constantly scan Faramir's face for any indication of dismissal, but upon finding none – which the kneeling man made sure of – he placed his lips over Faramir's and kissed him.

It was a kiss as light as a feather, but it lingered on his lips longer than any kiss ever had. It was no kiss of burning passion, but it sent his blood humming in his veins. It was not a demanding kiss, but Faramir would have offered his soul to stay within that touch for the rest of his life. It was a loving kiss, and he gave all of his love in return.

When they parted, Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully.

"I would never send you away," he said in a low voice, "but even the embers are dying and the candles provide no heat."

Faramir nodded slowly, not at all willing to rise.

Aragorn traced a finger along his cheek. "I also suspect you did not care to eat before you stormed in here," he smiled. When he was rewarded with a sheepish smile in return, he continued. "Then I ask you to go and find something edible in the kitchens, and if you will, bring some of whatever you come across to me? It is after all, long past supper."

At his words, Faramir felt a small hope spring up. He chose his words carefully.

"You would… see me again tonight then, my lord?" he asked, trying to read Aragorn's smile before the King answered.

"Yes, I would, Faramir," Aragorn stated simply. He motioned for the Steward to stand up, which he did so quickly he felt his head spin once more. "Find us something to eat and then come to my chambers. I will make it there on my own, I assure you," he added when the other man opened his mouth to speak.

Faramir nodded. A tingle of nervousness sped through him and settled in his stomach. He made his way to the door, but turned to look back at his King who was still seated in his chair.

"You will manage?" He had to make sure.

"I will," Aragorn reassured him with a smile, and somewhere in that smile lay a promise.

**tbc**

**I wish you all a lovely Midsummer and Solstice!**


	4. Moving

**So, yes, I believe Aragorn finally came round and discovered that sulking was no fun ;) This chapter is longer than the others, but I thought I wouldn't torment you with a brutal ending this time. Things are… happening.**

**Chapter 4 – Moving **

Faramir made his way down to the kitchens letting his familiarity of the corridors and stairs guide his feet; his mind was being consumed by the anticipation and apprehension that grew stronger every minute. They had come to some sorts of crossroads, he knew. Seemingly, they were moving in the same direction, but if Aragorn chose to follow a different path – if he changed his mind – Faramir would not know what to do. The rage that had coursed through him earlier that night had left both his body and mind, and was nowhere to be seen, no matter how deep he looked into his own heart. He only longed to see that smile again – the smile Aragorn had given him as he exited the office.

Faramir quickened his pace and would not have noticed if an army of orcs urged on by twenty revived Sarumans came towards him. Not until he brutally collided with the closed kitchen door did he stop, rubbing his forehead and swearing, but quite happy it was past midnight and the place was deserted.

Inside, he absentmindedly picked up some bread and cheese and placed the food in the first basket he came across. He also found some apples from last year's harvest. They were slightly crumpled and yellow, but had a sweet flavour, and they reminded anyone who tasted them of warm sunshine and leafy groves. He took a moment to remember the autumn passed, drawing in the scent of the apples. It had been but a week before the accident: he had been strolling with Aragorn in the orchards, the men, simply enjoying each other's company. The newly-crowned King had told him that in some places, apples were regarded as symbols of immortality and rebirth, and were, because of that, considered sacred.

Faramir knew not much of such things, but where he was standing now, in the dark in the kitchens, he thought that apples were an appropriate choice. He desperately hoped this was a new beginning for himself and Aragorn, even a form of rebirth of some sorts.

Content with the result of his quest, he started back, but this time, he headed for the royal bedchamber. Once more, nervousness overwhelmed him, and once more he increased his speed until he was almost running. Praying no one heard his hurried footsteps he finally found himself in front of the door that separated him from the man who he spent most if his waking hours thinking of.

'And whom you dream about at night,' Faramir admitted to himself, colouring slightly, even though he was all alone and no one could hear him think anyway.

Collecting himself, he knocked softly, and waited for a response. When nothing happened, the beginnings of a cold sweat broke out across his forehead, but forcing himself to breathe deeply, he knocked again, a little louder. Finally, Aragorn's voice drifted through the wood, calling for him to open.

Stepping into the room, Faramir saw Aragorn bending over a bowl that seemed to contain water and something dark, floating on the surface. The King looked up when the Steward entered.

"There you are," he said, eyeing the man by the door. "Faramir, have you been running?" he added, raising an eyebrow.

His Lord may not walk as easily as before, but there was certainly nothing wrong with his sight or hearing, Faramir ascertained. Trying to recover his breath, he shrugged:

"I was trying to stay warm."

"Ah," Aragorn said, "not too easy this winter," he added with the smallest hint of a smile on his lips, making Faramir suspect he did not believe him the least.

Aragorn glanced at the bowl on the table beside him and ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair. He had dressed in a loose grey tunic but he still wore the same brown leggings underneath. His broad shoulders and strong arms might be covered, but Faramir still felt a spark of excitement in his breast at seeing his King so. It was definitely much less clothing than usual and it made him hope that Aragorn was… well, at least comfortable in his presence.

The bedchamber was lit by two oil lamps and it was warm, despite the low-burning fire. The curtains were drawn, and the howling winds seemed suddenly very far away. Faramir made his way over to where Aragorn was standing, still observing whatever was in the bowl. Upon seeing its content he frowned.

"Ehm, my Lord? These are… leaves?"

"They are," said Aragorn. "I was given them to help ease the pain in my legs," he explained. "They are stored dried, so one must soak them before using them."

Faramir gave him a curious look. "How do they help," he asked.

"Well," Aragorn began, "I place them on my legs before I go to sleep." There was a slight colour to his cheeks now.

"You have been sleeping with dripping wet leaves against your skin?" said Faramir, trying his best to keep a straight face.

"It… might be so," Aragorn confirmed reluctantly.

Faramir shook his head. "Healers…" he sighed, "a sorry lot you are."

"Hah!" exclaimed Aragorn, "you would not be so well off, my dear Steward, if it were not for the healers!" His frown though, was being overcome by a great smile which Faramir happily returned.

"Alright," he agreed, "true enough I suppose. But I still find this weird," he gestured at the bowl. "If it helps, though…" he trailed off, not believing anything that wet and sticky could relieve pain.

Aragorn grumbled something Faramir could not make out, but then he turned his attention back to the Steward.

"I see you did find us something to eat," he said, nodding at the basket Faramir was carrying.

"I did. It is not much, but in a few hours we will have breakfast, I guess," he smiled, glancing towards the windows. No light of dawn could he see, though. "Shall we sit?"

He helped Aragorn to one of the cushioned chairs by the fire and claimed the other one for himself. They shared the bread, cheese and apples and ate in silence while the flames licked the wood and transformed it into ashes. Again, stillness settled between them and Faramir may have been entirely at ease if his mind did not constantly remind him of where he was, and with whom.

_At some point, we must sleep._ _Aragorn will go to bed and so will I. The only question is: which bed will be mine tonight?_

In front of him, Aragorn was staring into the fire, looking as one of the Kings of Old. His strong jaw line and crystal clear eyes blended power and beauty into an enchanting image. Faramir shuddered at the thought of being close – closer – to such a man. True, it had already happened, but that was last summer, and summer seemed so very, very distant. Now snow and ice surrounded them, and had buried the orchards under a thick blanket of white.

A hand touching his own stirred Faramir from his reverie. Aragorn was leaning forward, watching him intently, but at the same time, appearing completely calm. He spoke in a low voice:

"I think I will have to lie down now," he said gently. "I am an old man, remember?"

"A very young old man you are, Aragorn," Faramir answered him, feeling the tingle from earlier begin a dance in his stomach again.

"Even so," Aragorn smiled.

He fell silent and Faramir did not dare to speak.

_Crossroads._

Aragorn traced a circle with his finger on the back of Faramir's hand. The sound of their breathing mingled with the crackling of the fire, but other than that it was quiet. The taste of apples lingered in his mouth and told him again the tale of the sacred fruit.

"Will you sleep here tonight?"

_Blood, rushing through him, weakening him, but making him stronger at the same time._

Faramir raised his eyes to Aragorn's.

"I would not want to sleep anywhere else," he said, not finding the words he really wanted to speak.

Aragorn regarded him with a gleam in his eyes that Faramir could not interpret. "It makes me very happy, Faramir." He paused. "Shall we… then?"

They rose and Faramir escorted Aragorn to the large bed. He drew away the covers and helped Aragorn lie down, pulling off his boots and making sure the King was comfortable. A thought crossed his mind when he went to extinguish the oil lamps.

"My Lord, will you want your leaves as well?" he said, smiling a little.

Grunting was heard from the bed before Aragorn answered:

"I think I will do without them tonight," he muttered.

"Very good," Faramir said, and then, he could not resist adding, "we shall have something to eat then, if we wake up hungry in an hour."

"Oh, please go on!" Aragorn cried out from where he was lying, "tease me as much as you like!"

Faramir chuckled and came back to the bed. "Who knows, maybe they are absolutely delicious?"

"They are all yours," the other man stated. "Enjoy…"

Faramir laughed this time, pulling off his boots as well. The small fire cast a dim light for which he was thankful. He hung his belt over the back of a nearby chair, but then he hesitated. His shirt was long enough to cover him properly but perhaps it would seem strange if he took off his leggings. Biting his lip, he sat down, fully clothed, on the bed. Behind him, Aragorn stirred.

"It is alright, Faramir," he said softly. "Undress a much as you choose."

The Steward felt his cheeks flush and quickly undid the knot that held his leggings together. He slipped out of them, more gracefully than he had hoped. He lay down beside Aragorn, at a respectful distance, wondering how he would survive this at all.

"Will you come closer?"

The question was not spoken in a raised voice, but it managed to pierce the air with full force all the same.

His pulse quickened as he moved nearer, feeling the first wave of body heat radiating from the King. He lay on his side, facing Aragorn who looked at him through the growing darkness. The fire must have died down, Faramir registered.

Aragorn shifted his upper body to change his angle.

"I have longed for this for an eternity," he said in the low voice that made Faramir shudder with longing. "Come…"

Faramir felt arms draw him closer, and he gladly acquiesced, moving so that his body lay against Aragorn's. His head was on the King's left arm, while the right one was securing Faramir's position.

"Tell me to stop and I will," Aragorn whispered hoarsely, but the younger man made no attempt to prevent him.

"Aragorn…" he began, "I would never ask you to stop." He whispered as well.

Then he was kissed. It was a slow, slow kiss, working its way into his system. Aragorn brushed against him with a tongue so impossibly soft. He sucked on Faramir's lower lip, breathing deeply through his nose, but seeming like he never wanted to end it. He gently parted the younger man's lips and ventured inside his mouth with that tongue, exploring and conquering. Aragorn stroked his tongue, traced his lips with the tip of his own tongue, pulling him closer, tangling his hand in Faramir's hair. He moaned softly when he found the Steward's neck and could caress his skin with his skilled fingers.

Faramir was melting. He was flooding over with emotion, not sure of where he began or where he ended. He was sinking, and then he rose over the mountains, high above Middle-earth, becoming one with the stars. He saw nothing, he could form no thoughts - he could only return what was being given him. Kissing Aragorn was beyond everything.

When the man who was King sucked on his tongue, Faramir felt a heat collect in his groin. A low moan, deeper and stronger now, escaped Aragorn and the heat within Faramir intensified. That sent a warning to his clouded mind and brought back his awareness. He lay pressed against the other man, but now he shifted, not wanting to display the growing bulge beneath his shirt. Feeling safer with his stomach against the mattress, he captured Aragorn's tongue with his own, and sucked in the same way the King had done.

A growl elicited from Aragorn did not reduce his condition, and nor did the way the same man now stroked his lower back, forcefully but painfully arousing. It took all of Faramir's willpower not to thrust his hips against the sheets. He was not sure why he felt so embarrassed, but still he fought on, trying to mentally separate his mouth from the rest of his body.

Realising that was impossible, he was almost grateful when the kiss ended. They were both breathing heavily by then, and Aragorn's grey eyes were locked on his.

"Come closer," he murmured roughly, attempting to pull Faramir to him.

The Steward flushed, "I… Aragorn… it is…" he tried, wishing desperately he could think of something intelligible to say. "I cannot handle too much," he finally managed, silently cursing his foggy head.

"Oh, Faramir," Aragorn sighed. Then he flashed a knowing smile, "do you think," he caught one of Faramir's hands. "Do you think you are the only one who are aroused," he asked placing Faramir's hand on his own hardness.

Faramir drew a sharp breath at the sensation of Aragorn's cloth-covered manhood. The King pushed Faramir's hand further down, sending shivers through his Stewards body.

"Shall I untie your leggings?" Faramir asked, hearing his voice shake.

"I would like that," the other man answered huskily.

With Aragorn's hand still on top of his own, Faramir worked the knots until they gave way. Pulling away the fabric his breath caught when he touched bare skin. Aragorn was still watching his face.

"You are beautiful," he whispered. "Lie against me again," he begged.

Faramir changed his position once more so his groin now touched Aragorn's leg. He trembled slightly, but stayed like that this time. Gathering courage, he encircled the King's hardened member with his hand, but protested when the other man drew his own hand back.

"No," he smiled faintly, "keep it there."

Aragorn's hand returned and together they began stroking. Faramir closed his eyes and rode the waves of pleasure, listening to the soft groans coming from his lover. The first wet drops that touched his moving hand helped ease the friction and Aragorn shifted underneath him. Faramir felt his own arousal twitch and this time he could not stop the movement in his hips. He thrust against Aragorn's leg, hoping he did not hurt him.

"I am sorry," he mumbled in a slurred voice.

But Aragorn urged him on with his hand, and Faramir stroked harder. He brushed his thumb against the tip of Aragorn's member, making the man thrust his own hips upwards. Faramir wanted to tell him to be careful but he found he could not speak as heat sped through him and filled him completely.

"I…"

Aragorn inhaled sharply, and came with strong force, spilling his seed over their hands and himself.

Faramir felt tightness in his own body, and after a few seconds he followed Aragorn, thrusting once more, and then finding his release.

Trembling, he sank further down into the bed, placing his hand on Aragorn's flat stomach. The King's hand covered his as they struggled to regain their breathing.

"Oh Valar," Aragorn finally sighed, turning his head to place a kiss on Faramir's forehead.

"You are not hurt? I… I did not hurt you?" asked Faramir.

Aragorn lay with his eyes closed, but with a smile on his lips. "Nay, you could never hurt me," he said. Then he opened his eyes and met Faramir's gaze, looking a little troubled. "My dear, I am sorry," he said, "I would do something for you, but I am so tired."

Faramir shook his head. "No, Aragorn, it is fine. Of course you are weary. It has been a long day, after all…" he said, with a small smile.

"No, I am sorry, Faramir" Aragorn repeated, "but I will make it up to you, I promise."

The King kissed him once again before Faramir pulled the covers over them. Soon, Aragorn's breathing evened out and he was sleeping peacefully. Faramir lay awake for a while in the dark, doing his best to integrate what had happened. He had begun the day freezing in a tent and now he was in the royal bed, in Aragorn's arms. And with a promise that more would come.

**tbc**


	5. Arriving

**We are now back inside Aragorn's head. I bid you welcome.**

**Chapter 5 – Arriving**

The first light of dawn broke through the thick clouds in the east. It yawned and stretched, sending its rays forward. At first it tread carefully, waking the snow on the ground, passing on tiptoe between the sleeping branches of the trees, and lovingly skated across the ice on the lakes. It passed over Erech, and a little later it flowed over Lebennin, where it rested a while to admire itself in the waters of the River Sirith. The light had noticed snow in the clouds when it awoke, and so, if you wanted to mirror yourself, you had to seize the opportunity when it was offered.

At long last, the light of dawn left Sirith's waters behind and continued its journey over Gondor. When it passed over the Crossings of Erul it saw a small company of Men riding towards the White City. This was such a rare sight this winter, that the light hovered for a moment around the men, making them wonder aloud about the strangeness of the weather, and if time was affected by it. The light of dawn laughed to itself as it sped onward to Minas Tirith to see if the King was awake or if it was its task to perform.

The Citadel had been altered since King Elessar came to the throne. It now more resembled a palace, which the light much appreciated. (The light of dawn had always had a soft spot for splendour.) However, lately the light had been worrying. The King did not seem as happy as he had once been. The light had known him for _ages_, had in fact fallen in love with him when he was a child in Rivendell, a Human son of the Lord Elrond. The light of dawn smiled at the thought of the Elves whom it loved dearly. But the King, was its favourite.

The light climbed upwards and wound its way to the King's window. The curtains were drawn but there was a small crack between them through which it could slip. The light softened and squeezed inside, not minding the window glass with which it was good friends. It trailed over the floor as usual, but halted abruptly when it tripped over a pair of boots that it recognised but did not count upon finding here! Not now, anyway. Of course, the light had always _suspected, _but had never truly _known_. It had tried to coax the midday light to tell it, but it had not worked. (They had even gotten in to an argument about it and had not spoken for several days.)

But now, the light of dawn, running faster, discovered a pair of black leggings beside the bed. This was certainly something new! Holding its breath, the light rose above the bed and, wide-eyed, took in the sight presented to it.

There was the King, lying on his back as always, with his dark hair tousled and his eyes closed. He was breathing evenly, his chest rising and falling continuously. And there, beside him – very close beside him –lay the Steward, he too peacefully sleeping. The light knew the Steward almost as well as it knew the King, but since he was the younger it was natural that it had spent more mornings with the King.

The light of dawn would have jumped up and down at the sight, _finally_ knowing what the midday light had suggested (not mentioning what the evening light had insinuated!), but it did not. Instead, it softened even more, and sat down on the bed beside the two men. It was not necessary to wake them just yet, it decided.

The King's arm had apparently been wrapped around the Steward, but now it rested on the covers. Perhaps they had been kissing, the light thought, trying to imagine it. It would make a sweet picture indeed! And maybe it would make the King happy again?

The light had always considered the Steward a handsome man, and had always wanted to help him. The light of dawn had _never_ liked Denethor, that was for sure! But how was the light, albeit being _the _light _of dawn, _to help a Human? It had tried to be extra careful when waking him, but that was all it could do. The Steward had seemed almost as unhappy as the King, at times.

Now, however, things might have changed. Oh, the light would have loved to stay and watch them! It still had work to do though. It rose from the bed and brightened reluctantly. No one would ever know if it did not enter with full force here. _Just for today._

With that, it took one more look at the couple in bed, left some glow of dawn behind, and slid out of the bedchamber, humming merrily to itself.

It was a couple of hours later that Aragorn began to slip out of his dreams and come back to his body. He had had a restful sleep, and felt strangely light. Somewhere within himself something had changed but he could not explain what or why. He lay with eyes closed searching for the answer. There was some pain in his thighs but that was not unusual. Yesterday he had been standing a lot… yesterday…

_Yesterday._

With a start he opened his eyes and saw the man next to him. Faramir had rolled away and was now lying on his stomach with his face turned towards Aragorn.

His beautiful Steward. Who could not love him?

Aragorn reached out and lifted a strand of hair from his face, drawing a sigh from the sleeping man. Recalling the previous night, the King smiled for several reasons, but he also felt a bit embarrassed. He _had _been tired, but he had not even touched his lover. He definitely had to make up for that.

Faramir stirred beside him and opened his eyes very slowly. For a second, he looked confused, then he spotted Aragorn and realisation dawned upon him. Colour rose in his cheeks as he too undoubtedly recalled the night before.

"Aragorn…" he whispered, staring.

"Good morning," the King said, stroking his cheek. "Have you slept well?"

"I… have… Oh, gods…" He buried his face in the pillow.

Aragorn frowned. "Faramir, is something wrong?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer. If the other man regretted spending the night with him, he would be utterly crushed.

"Listen, Faramir, I know I was not very attentive to you… please, speak to me. Du you regret what happened?" Holding his breath, he waited for a reply.

Faramir raised his head. His cheeks were still flushed but he met the King's gaze without flinching. He even looked a bit surprised.

"I would never regret that, Aragorn," he said, "I just thought that perhaps you… were not… happy about it."

Aragorn exhaled with relief. "Valar, Faramir, I was stroking your cheek when you awoke! If I had not wanted you here I would not have done that."

"Well, it might have been your way of making it easier to say that you had changed your mind," he grumbled.

"That makes no sense at all," Aragorn stated. "This is crazy, come here instead", he beckoned Faramir to him. "Help me sit up, will you?"

With Faramir's assistance he soon found himself in a sitting position, with the soft pillows supporting him. The Steward settled with his back against Aragorn's chest and left arm, resting his head on the King's shoulder. He stretched out his legs and gave a content sigh.

"The light seems softer today," he noted. "I wonder what that means."

"Probably more snow," Aragorn groaned. "If this winter never ends, I will go mad."

"If this winter never ends," Faramir said, "we will settle in this room with tons of food and spend every day in bed."

At this, Aragorn burst out laughing. "Aye, we shall! Those are brave words coming from the man who only moments ago believed I did not want him in my sight!"

"Better safe than sorry, you know," Faramir replied and smiled up at Aragorn.

"Mhm," the King answered him and captured his lips with his own.

He kissed the Steward eagerly, tasting him over and over again. I will never grow tired of this, he thought. When Faramir's tongue swept into his mouth, he felt even lighter than before, letting his own tongue caress the other. He trailed a hand over the other man's chest, tracing the muscles he knew existed underneath the shirt he wore.

Excitement washed over him as Faramir raised a hand and pulled his head closer, claiming more of him.

_Perhaps I will be ready soon. Ready to offer everything._

Aragorn was about to let his hand travel lower, to send it further down Faramir's lean body, when a sharp knock on the door interrupted him.

"My lord?" called a voice from the corridor.

Their kiss ended abruptly and Aragorn threw his head back in frustration. Faramir grunted, discontent.

"Yes?" Aragorn answered in a raised voice. "What is it?" He was not feeling very polite at all, all of a sudden, and would have much preferred it if no one interrupted him ever again.

"My lord, a delegation from Erelas will be arriving in an hour. They sent a messenger in advance and have requested to see you, sire," the servant informed him.

Surprised, Aragorn looked down at Faramir who appeared equally shocked.

"A delegation? In this weather?" Faramir said in wonder.

"Thank you!" Aragorn called. "I will see them when they arrive."

They listened in silence to the footfall of the servant as he left. Faramir sighed and his head fell back against the King's shoulder.

"We ought to rise then," he mumbled.

Aragorn stroked the hair beneath his chin that he could reach and kissed it tenderly.

"Yes, I suppose so," he said. "We need to wash, find some decent clothes and eat. It feels like years ago that I saw a delegation of any kind."

The King watched Faramir rise from the bed and slip back into the leggings he had worn the day before. He pulled on his boots, but did not mind with his belt. The white tunic fell loosely around him, providing Aragorn with ideas on how easy it would be to remove it.

Not now, he chided himself and tied his own leggings instead. He lifted his legs, one by one, and swung them carefully over the edge of the bed.

Faramir came over to his side and held out his hands to him.

"Here, I will help you," he smiled.

Aragorn took his hands and rose slowly to his feet. Staggering a little after lying down all night, he was grateful for Faramir's strong arms that wrapped around him.

"Thank you," Aragorn said, resting against his strong frame. "You must think me pathetic…"

"Never," Faramir assured him. "Never will I think you the least bit pathetic!" He paused. "That is, until I see you with those leaves on your legs."

"Oh, leave it be will you!" Aragorn muttered.

His Steward laughed softly. "We will see," he said, which did not sound too promising at all.

Aragorn freed himself from the embrace. "We shall have to get ready," he said, scanning Faramir's face. "I will see you in a little while."

Faramir nodded and drew back. "Yes, I will meet you in the dining hall."

Aragorn followed him with his gaze as he moved towards the door. Before he exited, Faramir turned and looked back at the King.

"You do no regret what happened?"

"No, Faramir, I could never regret that," he told the Steward.

Faramir nodded again, and with a smile tugging at his lips, he left the royal bedchamber.

Aragorn waited until warm water was taken to him. He washed and dressed and finally cast a look at himself in the looking-glass. "You will deal with this delegation, hold council and get it over with as quickly as you can," he told his reflection. "And then, if we are lucky, more snow will indeed come and you will have a reason for not leaving this bedchamber for days!" Feeling quite pleased, he drew himself up. Being King might not be so terrible after all.

**tbc**


	6. Falling

**I hereby introduce you to my very own invented people! I claim them all! (Alas, Tolkien still owns Aragorn and Faramir… and Minas Tirith… and the rest of that world. I can't even really claim the weather, can I?)**

**Chapter 6 – Falling**

Yes, it had seemed easy at first, but Aragorn soon discovered that the men who arrived that morning were not swift to leave. There were nine of them, they had been riding for several days and they were most anxious to inform the King of every hut, shed, bridge, fence, wall, roof, window and barn that had been affected by the snows. They gave a detailed account of every injury to these, be it tiny or extensive damage, not minding at all that morning turned into midday, and midday into afternoon.

"You see, my lord," one of them, an elderly man called Forn who seemed to consider himself someone of utter significance, said, "the bridge that crosses the River Ciril about a league south of the city of Calembel, is severely damaged already. A few more windy days and no one can be sure it remains in place." He shot the King an exacting glance.

"Yes!" said Aragorn, weary of this endless talk, "I have marked it on my map. My men will see to it."

"Very good, sire," Forn continued," because it is a most important bridge to the people of Calembel! It was built over fifty years ago to help the passage across the river," he nodded.

"You do not say?" Aragorn muttered to himself where he sat.

"I am sorry, my Lord?" Forn looked at him inquisitively.

"No, nothing. Pray, continue."

"Well, there is also the question of the farms in Erech," another man named Aestor said quickly. He had been poring over the maps but now he stood and spoke in a raised voice. "Fences have fallen to the ground and those that still stand upright are in no excellent condition, I will tell you."

The other men mumbled in agreement and discussions started all over again.

The King leaned back in his chair and listened to their demands and requests. His lower back ached and he longed to lie down. The men at his table were not all from Erelas he had learned, but came from all over Gondor. They had met up in Erelas though, and ridden out together.

The great oak table was laden with maps and records, lists of his men and the material they would need when they set out to repair and rebuild. Faramir was seated at the other end of the table and was practically drowning in paper. He looked about as miserable as Aragorn felt.

As afternoon wore on, thick clouds drew in from the east and blocked out the sun. Soon snow fell heavily to the ground in Minas Tirith and the men shook their heads and pointed to the maps.

"This will definitely be the end of some of the huts we passed on our way here," a younger man, who went by the name of Deren, stated ominously as the others nodded frenetically.

Making one final attempt to end the council, Aragorn placed his hands on the table and cleared his throat. "As I have already told you, my good sirs, my men have been travelling through this country for weeks, working hard to repair what has been shattered by wind and broken by snow. I have heard you worries, and I thank you for your opinions."

_Which you have stated over and over, and probably would continue to express long into the night if I let you._

Before any of them could say anything, Faramir stood amidst a whirlwind of papers.

"The King is weary," he said, gesturing towards Aragorn. "I am afraid we shall have to end things here, but I assure you all that we will see to your requests."

A few disgruntled noises rose up around the table and Aragorn felt inclined to speak again. No matter how tired he was, he did not want to be considered haughty and callous.

"You shall of course stay for dinner," he smiled and before he knew what he was saying, he added, "and you will be given rooms for the night if you do not wish to ride in this weather."

So. He did not mean that. He was in no mood to entertain guests. He had no choice though, he saw when he looked out the window. Riding in this snow could truly be perilous.

Spirits rose immediately as he finished speaking. The men gathered up their documents, bowed to him and left the council hall in pairs, speaking quietly to one another. Only Deren stayed behind and exchanged a few words with Faramir. Aragorn could not hear what they said, but he saw Deren place a hand on the Steward's shoulder and laughing brightly as he did it.

A moment later, Faramir closed the door behind him.

"Gods!" he exclaimed. "I thought they would never leave!" He dropped into a chair next to Aragorn's and began massaging his temples. "How many bridges can there be in Gondor, after all?" A frown settled on his face. "I really should know that."

Aragorn shook his head tiredly. "No, no… You should not. No, thank you for ending it."

"I did not mean to imply that you are not well – or interested – but I saw no other way." Faramir leaned forward with a worried look in his eyes. "I did not offend you?"

"No, you spoke the truth, I _am _weary." Grasping Faramir's hand, he added, "I forgive you," and smiled.

"You are most kind, my lord."

Watching Faramir grin at him made it almost worth it, Aragorn decided. He had nine demanding guests to deal with, but he also had an amazing Steward. He raised Faramir's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

However, he also had strained muscles and an aching back.

"I fear I shall have to rest before dinner," he sighed.

Releasing the Steward's hand and feeling as old as one of the great trees of Mirkwood he steadied himself against the table and stood. Gratefully he accepted Faramir's arm and they made it to his bedchamber at a slow pace. They met none of the new arrivals for which he was also very grateful, and he finally collapsed on his bed with closed eyes and a heaving chest.

_If only time could stop now, if only for a little while…_

"Aragorn?"

Faramir's voice drifted through the haze that filled his mind. It sounded frail, as if his name were spoken with the utmost care by the Steward.

"Aragorn?" Again.

He tried to form a reply but he had no strength left. He saw stars, or perhaps it was snow, falling, falling - endlessly falling, in the darkness.

There was movement, a tugging at his feet, something was pulled over him and he thought he heard voices coming from far away. Then all went blessedly quiet and he stopped trying. An age passed and then a warm body lay against him. Sweet Valar, how he needed that closeness!

He was floating. He desired to stay within his own mind but it would not be. Gradually, he lost awareness and soon there was no more snow to be neither seen nor felt.

-oooo-

The room was dark when he awoke, and outside, one wind fought for control over another. They howled and bawled at each other, rushed to and fro, and by the sounds of it, not wanting to give way the least.

He reached out for the body that he believed he remembered from before, but his hand was only met with cold sheets. He was alone.

For a while he lay in the darkness, struggling to figure out what time of night it was. All was quiet around him and it increased his uneasiness. The delegation from Erelas needed to be seen to, he knew. On the other hand, if it was very late they would all be asleep by now.

Frustration grew within him as he realised there was naught he could do. Now indeed, they would find him weak!

Sleepiness, though, came to him despite his aggravation. It did not care it he fought it, embedding him once more among misty shadows and holding firm its grip. He barely heard the push of his door, and the footsteps that followed. Not until something touched his forehead, he became conscious that someone had joined him.

It could be anyone. Aragorn desperately pulled himself out of his dizzy state. Turning his head to the side and reaching for his eyes with his hands, he meant to rub them but another hand caught them briskly and lay them down by his sides.

"Sssch… Lie still…"

The same hand now ran along his cheek, soothing him. He cringed underneath it, wanting, _needing_, to wake up.

"Easy, Aragorn, please…. It is I, Faramir."

_Faramir?_

He fell once more, but this time into calm waters. Words did still not come to him, so he reached for the hand that caressed him.

"Aragorn, may I stay the night with you?"

Such a simple question, but it must have taken an enormous amount of strength to verbalise it. Inside his own mind, Aragorn nodded, confirmed, agreed, approved and permitted, but he could only squeeze the hand he held on to ever so lightly.

Once more that night, a body slipped into the bed to lie beside him. He turned his head to the other side, sensing the breath that swept over his face.

"I will not keep you awake for long," Faramir whispered, "I just…"

Well-known lips touched his. He vaguely tasted wine on them, but beyond was the flavour of the man he longed for so badly. Being completely exhausted by now, he did not kiss back. Instead, he lay still, surrendering to Faramir who let his own lips travel tenderly over those of Aragorn.

When the other man pulled back he wanted to persuade him to continue.

_With this treatment I need no other. Stay… please… stay…_

He felt Faramir's warm body move closer, and he welcomed it wordlessly.

Whispered words he could not discern drifted around him. He felt no need to distinguish them though, as he allowed night to carry him away into the realm of dreams.

**tbc**


	7. Playing

**Well isn't this typical: Tolkien provided us with the loveable characters while mine are simply… idiots. **

**Chapter 7 – Playing**

What had begun as a short visit had turned into a long stay. The delegation from Erelas had stayed a fortnight and was still not eager to leave. Aragorn blamed the weather.

They were probably good men, they were just a little… trying. When evening finally came after a long day filled with discussion and argumentation, Aragorn was too tired to think of anything but sleep. And as for Faramir, he spent every free hour inside the library, desperately trying to find the documents required. The King and the Steward had not spent another night together and by the looks of it, they would not be doing that for yet another week… or two.

Meanwhile, it kept on snowing. No horse, no matter how strong, would make it very far, laden with baggage and rider, Aragorn grimly realised. It really was quite annoying.

Now it was dinnertime and the King was seated with his guests in the dining hall. At first, he had stretched out his legs underneath the table, but the man called Aestor had constantly kicked him by accident, taking no notice himself. Lacking the energy to enlighten him, Aragorn had receded and tried to find a different position that was equally comfortable.

To his left, further down the table, sat Faramir with Deren by his side. They appeared deep in conversation, but Aragorn noticed how the blond man sometimes, very briefly, studied the Steward's face before he answered him. Then he opened his mouth and flashed a brilliant smile as he spoke.

Aragorn felt his own eyes being drawn to the couple. He tried to tell himself that he was not watching them but did not prove very convincing. Deren's behaviour brought forth an odd feeling in him. Faramir certainly was an intelligent man and anyone would be interested in hearing his opinion on any subject, but this was something else. It was strange.

The dining hall was lit by many torches whose light did its best to chase away the growing darkness of evening. Two wood-fires helped keep the temperature up, but still the chill managed to creep in through windows and doors. They had only begun eating when Deren suddenly spoke up so loud that everyone's attention was turned to him.

"You do not say? I shall have to return then, as soon as this accursed winter is passed and the weather has grown warmer!" He beamed at Faramir.

The Steward, realising that the entire party was looking at them, gave a courteous smile. "I am sure there are some Rangers you could join if you truly like to see Ithilien."

In an instant, Deren's face grew troubled. "Some Rangers you say? Ah, but is it not yourself who are most familiar with the lands? Faramir," he added.

Faramir gave a small coughing sound. "I am needed here I am afraid, but as I said, if you wish, I can find you companions good enough."

Deren shook his head dramatically, and looked at the Steward with sadness in his eyes. "That is too bad," he said. "I should indeed have welcomed your knowledge - and company." Then, quick as a fish in a splashing stream he turned to Aragorn. "You do not venture outdoors very much I trust, my lord?"

Aragorn simply stared at him. At last he cleared his throat. "No, I do not."

"It must be very hard on you," Deren said. "According to what I have been told," he glanced at Faramir, "the lands around here are very beautiful."

"They are," Aragon replied, not truly believing he was being spoken to in this fashion.

"It seems such a tragedy that such a… great King must be confined to his own chambers," Deren continued, seemingly oblivious to the growing anger of Aragorn. Beside him, Faramir was listening with terror in his eyes. "And also, having a Steward who is so used to living in the wild… It really must feel… hopeless." Deren finally offered Aragorn a grieving look.

The rest of the visitors sat in complete silence. For several long moments the only sounds heard were the howling of the winds and the crackling of the fires. Forn took a sip of his wine, avoiding looking at the others.

Aragorn was very aware of his own breathing. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm as air drifted through his lungs and his nose, but inside him there was a storm gathering. His eyes were fixed on the blond man who had just stopped speaking. So casual was his tone, but such a meaning his words carried! However, when a reply came it was not Aragorn who gave it.

"If there is anything I have learned from our King, it is that there is always hope," Faramir stated in a firm voice. His jaw was set but he conveyed no other emotion.

The storm winds died down a little as a heartwarming joy awoke within Aragorn at the Steward's words, but no matter how hard he tried to lock eyes with Faramir, he failed. The other man refused to look at anyone, keeping his straight posture and facing forward.

"Of course, of course," Deren smiled. "After all, he did save Middle-earth." The man lifted his glass and raised it to Aragorn before he drank.

If it had been up to Aragorn, Deren would have choked on his wine and died on the spot.

They finished the meal to a large extent in silence. The other men talked a little among themselves, but neither Faramir nor Deren said a word. Aragorn was forced to answer at times when spoken to, but his replies were short and sharp.

Soon they rose from the table and dispersed. Most of the men hurried towards their chambers and Aragorn meant to do the same, albeit in a slower pace. Upon starting his tiresome journey he realised how accustomed he had grown to having Faramir's supporting arms to lean on. But Faramir had left the dining hall briskly, without even a bow. Not that he needed to bow to Aragorn, of course, but… well, he had left.

The King made his way bit by bit through the dimly lit corridor, inwardly cursing Deren and occasionally Aestor for the kicking. It made the going easier, at least somewhat. He steadied himself against the wall as he walked, but stopped when the first notes of hushed voices floated towards him. They seemed to be coming from further down the hallway.

"…really…"

"…if…can…help…"

Aragorn drew nearer, straining to hear.

"I will let you know."

That was Faramir, for certain. Aragorn dragged his legs forward, not paying attention to the large urn standing close to the wall, a gift to the King from Gimli, made by his people. The resounding clank that sprang forward when Aragorn collided with it was enough to wake the whole palace. Adding both himself and Gimli (and the Dwarf's craftsmen just to be make a point of it) to his list of individuals to be cursed, he staggered from the wall.

The voices were no longer to be heard and there was a scorching pain racing through his leg.

_Brilliant._

Having no other option, he continued until he at last was standing before his own door. Just as he was about to open it, the sound of feet approached him and not a second later a man came into view.

"My lord," he flashed a dazzling smile, "I bid you goodnight."

He bowed while passing the King, and all Aragorn could do was to turn his head and watch Deren's back disappearing down the hallway.

-oooo-

Morning brought not solely daylight, but also profound uneasiness.

Aragorn felt it as he lay in bed; it began as a small flicker in his breast but grew and extended to his stomach. Soon, it weighed heavily on his mind. And his heart.

It was as if Deren had, unbidden and with dirty fingers, poked around in an old wound, and it hurt. Also, he was smiling too much. Far too much. Aragorn was definitely not going to see that dazzling smile growing any broader. And it was definitely not supposed to be directed at Faramir like that.

Aragorn broke his fast early and settled in the council hall with a blanket wrapped around his legs. Gimli's urn had bestowed some bruises upon him but other than that he was fine. At least he was not worse.

The others began filling the room after an hour or two, seated themselves around the dominating oak table, still appearing to be in a dazed state of shock. They nodded to Aragorn but spoke very little. The King himself pulled at the blanket to cover his freezing hands, and waited.

The Steward entered about ten minutes later, carrying several large scrolls and maps, and probably using them as an excuse for not addressing him, Aragorn thought. Faramir spread them over the table surface and immediately began studying them. There was no sign, no look, no word. There was nothing, and the uneasiness within Aragorn welled up again.

However, as much as he was painfully aware of Faramir's presence, he also noted Deren's absence. The young man was not among the other guests and no one mentioned him. Aragorn had no intention to wait for him though, and he drew a deep breath and was about to start council when the blond casually strode into the room.

"God morning, my liege," he smiled gallantly.

Aragorn watched him suspiciously as he rounded the table and sat down beside Faramir who seemed to take no notice.

"Deren. We were about to begin without you,"

"Forgive me my lord," Deren kept on smiling. "I slept too long. Apparently I was – exhausted." He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for Aragorn's taste. "It must be the air." He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the Steward with a gleam in his eye. "Or what do you say, Faramir?"

It did not matter then that Faramir looked up with confusion written all over his face. It did not matter that he seemed to have no idea of what Deren meant. It did not matter that snow was whirling in the wind outside, it did not matter that he was King and he ought to follow protocol, Aragorn decided in that moment that something had to be done, and it had to be done very quickly.

**tbc**

**Oh, just get rid of him, will you...**


	8. Claiming

**First of all: thank you for reading, and thank you for kind words! So, after things took a little turn due to our most dearly beloved delegation from Erelas, let's twist it some more and venture inside Faramir's mind again. Properly in place? Let's begin.**

**Chapter 8 – Claiming**

Yes. Fine. It was heinously cold. And he did not need to be standing on the balcony with snow battering his face and brutally blinding him. He did not need to be here, shivering and trembling, with teeth that would surely clatter to pieces. He could have stayed inside, sought out a fireplace and turned his back to Aragorn's searching glances and done his best to ignore Deren's very existence. But he had not.

_How _had everything become so complicated? What was more, why did it seem like he always waded through life confused and uncertain of what happened around him? In his personal life, that was. As a Captain, Ranger and Steward he was in control, but as soon as it came to personal relationships he was completely lost.

Also, he had no idea why anyone would be interested in him… He was a man among Men, nothing special as far as he could see. He had been happy, living far away from Minas Tirith in the days of his father's stewardship. When he had been thrown into the War of the One Ring he had tried – in vain – to save Osgiliath from the claws of the Dark, but all he had really succeeded in was ending up in the Houses of Healing – while the battle was going on below. Honestly, where was the glory in that?

Then Aragorn. A King had shown interest in _him, _the son who should have been sacrificed in his brother's stead. Aragorn had called him beautiful, but he had been drunk. Faramir on the other hand, he had fallen in love.

Damn that love now! Time had rushed after that night; it was summer, then the first gooseberries had shown, then blackberries and apples and golden leaves and raspberries and he and Aragorn had walked in the gardens, and then – then, after only a few moments it seemed: the accident. And there was no more.

Faramir shifted on the balcony and attempted to revive his frozen legs, stamping his feet against the floor and trying to reestablish contact with his toes.

No, that was untrue. There had been more, only a couple of weeks ago. He had finally broken through Aragon's defences and spent the night with him, and by the gods, it was brilliant. But reality was never far away, was it?

Nine men had arrived in the White City and among them was one who had-

There was a hard knock on the window. He opened the door that separated him from these very people. A servant was gesturing towards the dining hall. With a heavy sigh, Faramir left his refuge and stepped inside.

Melting snow wet his windblown hair and weighed down his coat. He shrugged it off and hung it over the back of the nearest chair. It was not his usual custom to leave things for others to clean up, but somehow he had lost his energy to care. The small antechamber was warm and inviting; without any regret, he would have loved to stay there by himself all evening. He could sit in another chair by the fire and give himself credit for his great talent: wallowing in misery and self-doubt. However, he had all night to do that. Only dinner left now and then he was free to do whatever he chose and wallow as much as he liked.

Reluctantly he made his way to the dining hall where everyone except the King stood gathered. He hoped he could slip inside unnoticed, and preferably remain invisible throughout the whole meal. It proved impossible immediately, though, for Deren spotted him before he had even walked into the room.

"Faramir," he called out, a befuddled look on his face. "What in the world have you been up to?"

Faramir ran a hand through his dripping wet hair. "I needed some air," he shrugged.

Deren walked up to him with a smile growing on his lips, and in doing so, separating them from the others. "Some tension in council today… I understand you."

"Hm," offered Faramir.

"What if you catch a cold? Who would deal with everything then?"

Faramir shot him a quizzical glance and frowned. "Deren, we have a King. Gondor is well taken care of."

"Yes, of course," the other man said and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Of course. I simply mean, Faramir, that you are very important. You must not expose yourself to those harsh winds like that." He smiled. "Really, are you not the one who runs things around here?"

"I? I am merely the Steward. Aragorn is King."

"True, true…" Deren lowered his voice. "Still, it seems to me that he is quite… weak." He raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

The frown on Faramir's face deepened. "How can you even suggest that?" he hissed. He would not listen to Deren speaking ill of Aragorn.

"Very well," Deren was once more smiling. "I meant no offence - 'twas only an unprofessional observation." His grip on Faramir's shoulder strengthened and he directed them further away from the others. "Listen, Faramir, on another note…"

They were now on the other side of the room and there was still no sign of Aragorn. Faramir would prefer it if he had time to step away from Deren before the King entered.

"What can I do for you," he asked.

Deren laughed softly. "As I said, on another note… Faramir, I made a proposal to you last night if you remember…"

Faramir stiffened at the words but Deren continued, "I know not what kind of _arrangement _you have with the King…"

"What?!" The Steward spun around to face the blond man, breaking free from their body contact. "What are you implying?" he cried out, trying to keep his voice down, but earning himself a few glances from the other guests.

Deren only laughed that soft laugh again. "It is obvious, Faramir. But I can see you are not happy with the deal."

"This is _not _an appropriate conversation," Faramir warned him.

"Then I shall say no more." Deren held up his hand disarmingly.

"Good." Faramir gave a curt nod.

"Only," Deren gently placed his hand on the Steward's arm, "I wish you would reconsider."

In that moment a loud voice cut through the air. Dinner was announced and Aragorn was standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on Faramir and Deren.

-oooo-

_Whatever happened to the days of peace and quiet? _

As soon as that thought had crossed his mind, Faramir knew he was fooling himself. His so called 'relationship' with Aragorn had not been easy – not two months ago, not six, but do we not tend to glorify the past when the present is troubling us? And troubled he was; he had no idea what Aragorn was thinking.

The table had been pushed nearer to one of the fireplaces and Aragorn had lent his usual chair at the head of the table to Forn. The elderly man had protested for some time, but Aragorn had insisted, claiming that the other seat which he had chosen for himself would do his aching back good as it was closer to the warming fire. Finally, Forn had accepted the King's offer and sat down and Aragorn visibly relaxed – he even flashed a smile.

Faramir desperately wanted to ask him if he was in pain and if he could be of assistance in some way, but he found he lacked the courage to do so. Instead he stood by, silently observing the scene.

Aragorn did not appear to be in too much pain. In fact, there was a different air about him, and he looked like he had dressed with care; his tunic and leggings were made of dark, almost black, cloth and around his shoulders he had draped a light cloak in a warm purple colour, reminding Faramir of ripe plums. The fabric fell around the King softly, all the way to the floor; it worked as a sharp reminder of his royal status. Perhaps, Faramir thought, Aragorn was feeling festive – even happy to see him with Deren like that… maybe he was actually glad to be rid of him.

"Faramir?"

The Steward's eyes shot up to Aragorn's face but the King was not looking at him directly, rather, he was speaking to wall behind him.

"I would have you sit here," he gestured to the chair beside his own. Then he turned back to the others.

With a sense of dread, Faramir stepped up to the chair, pulled it out and seated himself on Aragorn's left hand side. Opposite him sat Deren as ordered by the King, and at least he was quiet.

As they began eating, Aragorn who had apparently settled for a mood change, entered into an animated conversation about trade and farming with Forn. It soon sparked an interest among the other guests as well and soon there was a lively debate going on in the dining hall. The King's new energy spurred the men, and the atmosphere was far merrier than it had been for days, with one exception: Gondor's Steward.

Faramir picked at his food. Normally, he would eat with good appetite, but tonight the vegetables – root crop from last year's harvest – seemed to have lost all taste. With the fish it was the same. And the wine. Candlelight danced on the glasses' surfaces, creating a beautiful patchwork of bright glow and dimmed shadow. He was warm again, sitting with his back to the fire, his body having forgotten the icy cold of earlier, and yet…

He was so incredibly tired of thinking! He was sick to death of analysing and contemplating. If he for one moment could just remove his own head and store it away somewhere out of sight – which unfortunately would prove difficult without said head –, it would be such, such, a relief! In an effort to relieve himself from some of this constant pondering, he drained his glass. A servant refilled it for him.

The voices floated across the table and there was some laughter, he registered. He shuffled the potatoes on his plate around for a bit but it did not make them more appealing. He had just decided he might as well give up when a weight landed on his right knee. A hand.

Aragorn's hand – it had to be – and it simply rested there.

Faramir picked up whatever was left of his courage and glanced to his right. Aragorn was speaking with Forn again and seemed completely ignorant of anything else.

Faramir cast some quick looks around the table but everything went on as it had the second before. Well. Right. Aragorn could have… misplaced his hand? There had been some drinking after all, he suspected – now actually listening to the conversations. Nothing extreme, but the men were slightly louder and more at ease. He looked down but due to Aragorn's cloak, his arm and consequently his hand was hidden from view. Besides, they were underneath the table anyway.

He sat very still, having no idea what to do. Aragorn was still deep in discussion and the potatoes were less inviting than ever. He settled for some more wine.

"No, no!" one of them cried out. "No, in order to make the best profit you must travel by road. Any other way will definitely delay the journey and the crops turn bad, or they rot or I do not know what!"

"Planning is the key," Aestor pointed out. "There are several options. And then there is the weather…"

At that, everyone automatically turned to the windows even though the dark night outside made it impossible to see anything at all.

Aragorn spoke up. "There might be a possibility regarding the issue of the roads… "

His words were drowned out by the confusion in Faramir's mind as the hand on his knee slowly slid along his thigh and came to a rest about halfway up.

He heard Aragorn say something about Rangers and the others commented, but the words made no sense to him. The smallest spark of exhilaration sped through him and awoke dormant butterflies in his stomach. If Aragorn had misplaced his hand and now noticed it, surely he would have removed it if he had no intention of it being there… from the beginning… was it not so?

Servants came to clear the table and Faramir saw without regret his food leave the room. Empty glasses were refilled and dried fruit and sweet cakes brought forth and placed before them. The topic of the discussion changed to horses, specifically the horses of Rohan.

"Aye, to share in their knowledge!" exclaimed Forn.

"We will admire it from here." Faramir chanced a peek at Aragorn who was smiling broadly as he spoke. "Éomer will keep the secrets of horse breeding to himself and his people."

"It does seem to me very… impolite, at the very least." Deren.

Aragorn shook his head. "No, it is as it should be."

Deren gave a snort and opened his mouth to reply. However, when Aragorn's hand slipped between Faramir's thighs and forced them further apart, the Steward lost track once more.

A haze encircled Faramir and he found it amazing how the King managed to keep up with the conversation while his fingers were tracing lines against the fabric of his Steward's leggings. It was as if the touch stirred Faramir's blood which began to flow freely once more. His cheeks flushed and he thanked the gods no one was looking at him.

Aragorn's cloak hid his movements effectively but it could not hide the building excitement in Faramir. He could feel his own heartbeat quicken as resolute fingers worked their way upwards. He heard some exclamations, laughter and desultory words but they could not match the singing in his veins.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped, and Aragorn placed his hand, palm down, against his inner thigh. Faramir knew somewhere in the back of his head that it was a good thing, that he should gain control over his breathing and calm down, but his body was screaming for Aragorn to continue. He was inches away from touching Faramir in places he definitely should not be touching right now – if any of them saw, Faramir would be humiliated for the rest of his life. All the same, this was torture.

Aragorn's hand, currently innocent where it lay, sent heated ripples of longing into Faramir's body. It had been far too long since he felt this way and it made him want more. Images surfaced in his mind, images of Aragorn doing things to him that made him cry out in pleasure. It did not really help his condition.

Forcing his thoughts in another direction, he drew a deep breath and tried to focus on the men around the table. Aestor and a bearded man – Faramir forgot his name – were involved in a discussion regarding stables. Aragorn was sipping his wine, intently listening to their opinions. No one spoke to Faramir. He did not care.

Needing to occupy himself with something, he chose an apple and reached out for it with a shaky hand. Bringing it to his mouth and biting into it, he almost choked when Aragorn yet again began his ministrations. One finger travelled along his thigh, ever so slowly, working its way towards his groin. Faramir leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, meaning to shield the movements and giving Aragorn an opportunity to continue unseen.

It worked, and maybe a little too well for he was suddenly addressed.

"Farmir, you are very quiet this evening," Deren smiled, head cocked to one side. "Have you no opinion on horses?"

He meant to answer, he did, but just then, a second questing finger joined the first one and together they savagely tugged at his leggings. Faramir could not help the gasp that escaped him. Deren's eyes narrowed but he turned to Aragorn.

"My King, they say you indeed own one of that precious breed?"

Aragorn nodded. "I do."

"And is he as good as one might think?"

"He is. A beautiful creature," Aragorn said, his fingers now increasing the firmness of their strokes.

Faramir's head swam. There was tightness now, in his groin. Heat and lust pooled between his legs and the force of arousal swept over him like a tidal wave.

Deren's voice reached him through the fog that surrounded him:

"I see… May I be bold enough to enquire if you would lend him to me, just once? For some time now, it has been my dream to ride one so – extraordinary." His eyes were gleaming in the light of the candles.

Aragorn leaned forward as well, looking straight at the blond man. "Deren, I am afraid I am very possessive. He is a dear friend of mine, and you will understand that I do not like to share."

With that, he placed his hand forcefully against the arousal trapped inside Faramir's leggings.

**tbc**


	9. Doing

**I'm very glad you liked the previous chapter! So, still winter, still freezing cold, still Faramir's POV, still slash (!!)… still Deren is annoying (OK, he's keeping quiet this time around). I love writing author's notes – I think I could base an entire story on these.**

**Chapter 9 – Doing**

"…_you will understand that I do not like to share."_

Faramir did not listen to, nor did he understand, the words – being far too concerned with his now obvious arousal. Aragorn stroking him like this, during an official dinner, was probably as far from protocol you could come. Yet, there was no place he would rather be and, truth be told, Aragorn was doing a _very _good job convincing him he should stay. Not that Aragorn seemed to be aware of what he was doing. The rest of Aragorn, apart from his awfully active hand, that was.

He was still leaning forward and he had no idea for how long this would last – or what would happen if he were forced to stand up. He decided he would be better off if he did not consider that just yet. All the same, allowing his body to respond even more to Aragorn's actions might be hazardous. Then, again, was it not only seconds ago he had wished every thought in his head a million miles away? Maybe surrendering to Aragorn would not prove so bad.

Suddenly, an image of his father, the proud and cruel Denethor, surfaced in his mind and played before his eyes. If he had lived to see Faramir like this – if he had seen Faramir and Aragorn like this – he would spit and curse, roar and yell. He would most probably have beaten his son a thousand times and renounced him, expelled him from the White City. Perhaps from Gondor even.

A strange feeling awoke within Faramir. For once, he had chosen his own path to follow. He had fallen in love with a man he highly respected. This was his life and his decisions. For the first time since his father's passing he understood that Denethor was actually dead. Gone. Never to come back.

With that, he found a new well of strength to draw from. With Denethor dead, Faramir was free. Therefore, it was with great satisfaction he finally gave up and yielded to Aragorn's will. And the image of his father could curse and snarl as much as it liked for all he cared.

Oh, and yes, another voice spoke up within him, stating very clearly that Aragorn had some yielding to do himself. Faramir would see to that.

-oooo-

Skilled fingers were probing the fabric of his leggings under the table; they were looking for a way to conquer the material, proving themselves to be the winners and thus, acquiring the prize of their quest.

Faramir shifted in his seat, turning his hips and legs to his right and so giving Aragorn more space to work with. He had sobered somewhat (his father's memory having a tendency to do that to him) and was now quite determined to see this through properly.

The fingers slid up his inner thigh once more and when they reached his groin, he purposefully moved against them. It was awkwardly done, limited as he was due to his position in the chair, but he was rewarded when he thought he detected the smallest of gasps escaping Aragorn. The King's conversation with Deren had ended and he was currently talking to Forn, but Faramir had made up his mind.

Apparently Aragorn had decided he would proceed slowly so he kept running his hand along Faramir's thigh. Several times he did it; up and down he went, all in all creating a pleasurable feeling in Faramir. However, the next time his hand came in closer contact with his Steward's private parts, that same Steward enjoyed grinding his hips against it and so bringing Aragorn's hand in full contact with the hardened flesh beneath it. Aragorn's nimble fingers stumbled over the fabric and lost their rhythm.

Very much enjoying this new scenario, Faramir glanced around the table. The men had done some good drinking and some of them were sitting with heavy-lidded eyes in their seats. No doubt they would be sleeping in tomorrow.

For a third time he met Aragorn's hand with a small thrust, but this time the King surprised him by pressing his palm against his arousal and beginning to stroke him in earnest. This lasted for a couple of blissful minutes, while Faramir could do nothing but to endure, without breathing too heavy or moaning loudly. Then, another surprise.

Aragorn removed his hand and stood. He did it without grace, but he did not stumble. His cloak shielded him from curiosity, showing nothing that was not to be seen.

"My dear friends," he said," it has been a long day and I bid you goodnight. Please, stay as long as you like and drink whatever is left of the wine."

His guests smiled and thanked him, some more keenly than others, but at least they were awake. And polite enough.

The King turned to his left and glanced down. "Faramir, may I ask for your assistance?"

His voice and expression – all neutral. He was a King with weak legs and an aching back, asking his Steward to escort him to his chambers lest he should slip and fall on his way there.

Faramir, where he sat, panicked. There was no way he could rise without letting the others know what he had experienced during the previous hour. Half-hour? Ten minutes? No matter, it was too obvious not to be noticed.

He looked up at Aragorn who simply regarded him as if nothing of consequence had happened between them, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Faramir?"

The Steward cleared his throat nervously, "Of course…"

Clumsily he rose from his chair, pushing it backwards while he got to his feet, and then as quickly as he managed, he spun around, turning his back to the table.

Aragorn turned as well and took hold of his arm. Guiding Faramir to his right, keeping him as far away from the other men as possible, placing himself between them and his Steward, he made for the door.

"Goodnight," he called and was echoed by his guests, all but Deren who eyed him and the man he exited with, with a stern, unreadable gaze.

The door had barely closed behind them, and Faramir had almost no time to groan "Oh gods!", before Aragorn pushed him against the wall, pressing his lips against those of his Steward. He tasted of wine and sweet fruits, and Faramir willingly let him inside the cavern of his mouth. Aragorn's tongue swept over every tooth and left no corner untouched. Demandingly, he sought hold of Faramir's tongue and sucked on it hard, eliciting one of those moans which Faramir had been holding back throughout dinner.

When he pulled back, letting go of Faramir, there was a glow in his eyes that Faramir could only interpret as desire. He had a few questions for his King, however.

"Gods, Aragorn! What is all this?" He was short of breath but eager to find out more. And still a little suspicious.

Aragorn gave him a smile fuelled by the power of victory. "I was pointing out some details..."

"What did you and Deren speak of? The horses of Rohan?" Faramir had a fleeting memory of a discussion that had taken place sometime during the night.

"In a way… perhaps," Aragorn said. "I told him I do not like to share."

"Horses?" Faramir was confused.

"Anything." Aragorn leaned in again and claimed his lips possessively.

Faramir allowed him entry once more, overpowered by the lust that was coursing through him. He pulled Aragorn closer, bringing his hips in contact with his own. Upon feeling the hardness within Aragorn's own leggings, he shivered from another wave of desire.

Aragorn moved against him now, thrusting his tongue into Faramir's open mouth.

"I need you," he whispered hoarsely, not breaking the kiss.

And Faramir kissed back desperately. "We need to get to your chambers," he managed.

Unwillingly, they parted. Steadying Aragorn, Faramir took his arm and they began walking. The tightness in his groin was both painful and a blessing. With some luck, all would be well as soon as they were behind closed – locked – doors.

"I hated to see you with him." Aragorn.

"Who?" Faramir was still light-headed.

"Deren," muttered Aragorn.

Faramir stopped and turned to face him. "Nothing ever happened between us," he said, willing, no needing, Aragorn to know the truth.

"Nothing?"

He shook his head. There was more to it, though, and Aragorn deserved to hear everything. Uncertain, Faramir dropped his gaze and kicked at the floor. "He offered… to…" _Oh, this was difficult!_ "He offered…"

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "What did he offer?"

Faramir swallowed. "It was yesterday evening, after dinner…" _Was it really only yesterday? _"He said…"

"He said what?" There was anger in Aragorn's voice now.

"He said he would help me in any way I liked… if it was only to relieve some… pressure."

Faramir swallowed a second time, harder this time, his heart beating fast. He had done nothing wrong, but Aragorn looked like he was about to kill someone – right there and right then. Faramir was nearest.

"He did, did he? And what did you say, Faramir?" He took a small step towards Faramir who was already very close by.

"I could think of nothing to say!" he blurted out. It was true - he had been taken aback by Deren's offer. "I told him I would… let him know." His voice faltered. "I do not want him, Aragorn!"

Once more, he found himself pressed against a wall as Aragorn searched his face with that grey stare.

"And what is it you want?" he said in a low tone that might have been menacing if it were not for the slightly anxious flicker in his eyes.

"You. I want only you." Surrender indeed.

"Good."

As Aragorn's body fell against his own, Faramir exhaled deeply. This time he let his fingers wander among Aragorn's dark locks, threading and twirling. His blood was pulsing through him, not allowing him to forget the state he was in, and had been in for quite some time.

"I will go mad," he whispered, as much to himself as to Aragorn.

"Nay," Aragorn laughed quietly against his shoulder. "It was I who was to go mad… Do you remember, when I said I would go mad if this winter never ends?"

Faramir let go of him and held him at an arm's length distance. Regarding him softly he said in a wondrous tone, "How long ago was that Aragorn? A week, two? It seems like an age has passed since then."

"It does," Aragorn agreed, smiling softly. "Faramir, will you share my bed tonight?" He paused, colour showing in his cheeks. "Will you share this life with me?"

He looked no more than a young boy in that moment. Somehow, it was all Faramir needed to see.

"If you would let me."

"For whatever it is worth?"

"It could be nothing but amazing."

Aragorn nodded then and brought his lips to Faramir's. The Steward licked away what was left of the wine and then dove into the opening before him.

The King was easy to kiss, letting him try whatever he fancied, moving his head so Faramir could gain access to the warmth offered him. Hands roamed over Faramir's back, tugging at his clothing, and expressing their silent desire to expose some of the skin they knew hid beneath. He returned the feeling of being wanted, placing his hands on Aragorn's flat stomach and searching for a way in. Soon, they were both panting, flushed with pure _want_.

"Your chambers," Faramir repeated roughly.

They resumed their walking, stopping at times to nibble at neglected lips or tongues. Aragorn's legs were gradually giving way as the King felt the pressure of standing up for such a long time. Faramir supported him as much as he could and badly wishing – for several reasons – for the door that signified the end of their journey.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he laid his hand on the handle and pushed the door open. A small fire was burning but other than that there was no light source. The bedroom was chilly; the servants must not have known what to do since it was unusual that the King stayed up this late.

"Are you alright?"

Aragorn was pale, but he looked determined.

"I need to lie down," he said with a faint smile.

"Are you very tired?"

"In one way, yes… In another, no." Aragorn shot him a playful glance.

Blushing, Faramir lead him to the large bed and made sure he sat down comfortably. Then he went to stir the fire which crackled happily at the attention. He added some more wood and the flames licked at it gratefully. At second thought, he added some more.

Meanwhile, Aragorn lit some candles by the bed and the room became more friendly and welcoming. Knowing very well what might happen – or what might not happen – Faramir walked over to him where he was still sitting. He dropped to his knees and though the stone floor was cold enough to chase him away, he found he was mesmerised by Aragorn's eyes looking down at him. The glow had returned to them and it was as warm as the fire he had just re-awakened.

"Are you kneeling before me Faramir?" Aragorn's voice was soft.

"I am at your service."

Aragorn held out his hands and Faramir placed his own ones in them.

"I do not know how…" The King's voice trailed off, an insecure note to it.

"Aragorn…"

"No, I want to do this." He shook his head slowly. "I have wanted it for a long time… It is just…" Once more he lost control over his words.

"We do not need to…" Faramir said carefully, knowing well he very much wanted this. But if Aragorn knew not how to proceed, and was too unsure to try, he neither could, nor would, force him – all his determination from earlier completely erased from his heart.

"You have… I have, no _we_, have waited long enough." Aragorn seemed to pick up his courage. "Faramir, it will have to be you who… enter… me."

Faramir blinked. He felt his stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. Now that he was actually presented the issue, he felt inexplicably scared. He had not really considered how things would be done, simply wanted them to – happen.

"What do you say?" Aragorn lifted a hand and stroked Faramir's cheek. "Will you do it?"

Faramir struggled for words. "I…" It felt weird, but underneath that feeling fluttered those butterflies Aragorn's hand had brought to life earlier. And what about his decision? Yes, he wanted this… Although he had not expected things to turn out quite this way, he still wanted for it to take place.

"I will… try," he replied meekly.

Aragorn's thumb stroked his lower lip with loving grace.

"Then rise for me, Faramir," he whispered.

-oooo-

He lay against Aragorn who was naked and who was kissing him deeply. Faramir had shed his own clothes which now rested in a heap on the floor. His hand was travelling over Aragorn's chest, exploring every muscle, every bone, every hair it could find there. He found a nipple and rubbed it until it hardened beneath his fingers and its owner moaned in low tones.

They lay on the bed, pretty much as they had done the other night: Aragorn on his back and Faramir beside him, on his stomach. He leaned over Aragorn and was careful not to put too much weight on him even though the King insisted it was not a problem.

Faramir's hair fell around his face as he kissed the man he had chosen so long ago, when the world was celebrating and the summer stars circled above them. Now, when the Snow Moon was sending its silver rays over Middle-earth and the winter winds chased each other around every tower and mountain top, he had pulled the covers over them to keep them from shuddering in the cold. Accepting Aragorn's tongue into his mouth, he still shuddered, but for a very different reason.

"Touch me," Aragorn groaned when their lips temporarily lost contact.

Faramir slid his hand down his chest, and then over his belly, until he reached the hard column that was Aragorn's manhood. Reverently he did as he was asked. He sought out the lips beneath him and kissed again and again as he began stroking. A quiver raced through him and went straight for his groin.

Aragorn caressed him where he could reach, his hands discovering every bit of naked skin before him. When he succeeded in driving a hand between the mattress and Faramir's body and placing his fingertips against the arousal he found there, a flood of lust washed over the younger man. More eagerly he stroked Aragorn, while turning onto his side. When he forced his eyes open he saw Aragorn flashing him a grin.

"So far so good," he said in a voice overpowered with passion.

Faramir nodded dimly, giving a smile as well.

There were drops of liquid forming on Aragorn's arousal now. He gave a growl as Faramir sent his thumb across the tip, smearing the wetness over him. He felt dizzy, giving his own body over to another and still being in control of what he was doing himself. He thrust awkwardly into Aragorn's hand, groaning deeply.

"Faramir… will you take me?"

He met those eyes… grey silver, steel at times. Now they were like a shimmering stream in a winter forest. Alive, yet serious, knowing that colder weather might come, and ice and stillness might settle, making it impossible to move.

There was his decision: no more ice.

He cast off the covers and rose to his knees, helping Aragorn to spread his legs for him. The King made an enchanting picture: his dark hair spread out over his pillow, a broad and muscled chest, strong arms; and he was completely trusting. It was an – honour.

Faramir was hard and hot; Aragorn looked the same – his member twitching and desiring attention. From his bedside table, Aragorn retrieved a small vial which proved to contain sweet-smelling oil. Coating his fingers, he settled between Aragorn's legs, fixing his gaze.

The King smiled. Faramir proceeded. One hand he wrapped around Aragorn's erection and began to pleasure him. The other hand he moved closer to the dusky opening his fingers were to enter before long. Being this close to see it actually happening, Faramir was surprised to notice all fear had left him. He brushed over the sacs beneath the member, making Aragorn groan and thrust upwards.

Faramir's own manhood was throbbing painfully, but he knew this waiting would be worth it. Or, at least, he hoped so. It had been Aragorn claming him the last time.

Carefully he slid one finger inside, shocked by the warmth that embraced him. Aragorn shifted on the bed but urged Faramir on by nodding vigorously. Soon, he slipped another finger inside, scissoring and stretching.

Aragorn was writhing more now and despite his own desire augmenting extremely quickly, Faramir held back.

"Aragorn?" he choked out.

"'Tis fine, Faramir… continue… please."

"I do not want to hurt you."

At that, Aragorn raised his head and stared at him with eyes dimmed by yearning. "I will kill you if you do not continue now," he stated.

The laugh that bubbled up within Faramir was quickly quenched as Aragorn's body willingly received his third finger and he realised that it was time for the real test.

He let go of Aragorn who frowned at the loss of touch, and he withdrew his fingers. The King's chest was heaving and sweat was pearling on his forehead. He was faintly reaching for Faramir with his hands, but he did not quite reach him. His throbbing flesh was weeping more now.

Faramir drew a long breath and then finally pulled Aragorn's legs up so that his feet were positioned against the mattress. There were no immediate complaints so it could not be hurting him too much. Aragorn gave up his attempt to touch Faramir and instead he reached for a pillow they both slid in under his lower back, trying to raise him a little from the bed. With that in place, there was no more they could do but to begin.

Faramir used an excessive amount of oil on himself, not sure how much he needed. When he was done he locked eyes with Aragorn.

"I want this," Aragorn said softly. "I want you."

His jaw set, Faramir found he was suddenly so nervous he managed no words. He leaned over Aragorn, supporting himself with one arm, using his other hand to place the tip of his member at the opening. At least he did not tremble.

Telling himself that he was likely to survive – and that he had faced worse danger than this in his life (although in this moment he could not imagine what that might be) – he pushed inside.

The heat that engulfed him threatened to enflame him. Beneath him, Aragorn gave a loud moan and it wrapped around Faramir's heart as they both stilled to wait for Aragorn's body to adjust.

Faramir used both his arms to support him now, refusing to crash down upon his lover. It was hard resisting lowering his head to kiss his King, but a sober part of his mind assured him he could do so later.

When Aragorn reached up for him and tentatively placed a loose strand of hair behind his ear, Faramir began moving. He felt sparks all over. He was like the fire behind them, as burning hot and scorching as the flames, greedily feeding off the wood. He set a gentle pace, thrusting into Aragorn carefully. The King was groaning on the bed, tugging at Faramir's hair, trying to pull him down.

"No," Faramir grunted… "I cannot."

"Faramir… I want you closer," Aragorn begged.

"No, Aragorn." Passion was washing over him forcefully and he only just found the words he needed. "You are not strong enough."

A displeased growl was Aragorn's response.

"Touch yourself," Faramir asked, trying to focus on Aragorn taking himself in hand and begin stroking.

The vision of his own flesh sheathed deep within the other man as he brought himself to ecstasy urged him to move faster. When he found the angle that caused him to brush Aragorn's sensitive spot he watched his lover shake and tremble, and toss his head from one side to the other.

"Faramir…"

Another thrust and Aragorn came forcefully, spilling his warm seed over his own skin. Faramir felt a strong current surge through him, and he emptied himself inside Aragorn's body, almost screaming as he did so.

His last intelligent thought was to pull out as swiftly as he could, before his arms would bear him no longer and he collapsed on the bed beside Aragorn, shaking like never before.

-oooo-

Strong arms wrapped around him and held him so very close. He was sweaty, but so was Aragorn and he cared not at all. Keeping his eyes closed, he reached for the covers and pulled them over them both. It was warm and secure. Aragorn's heart was beating steadily once more and he was whispering something Faramir did not understand. Elvish, it sounded like.

He placed his head on Aragorn's shoulder, exhaling and calming down.

"_Meleth nín… _We did it."

Faramir smiled where he lay. "Aye, we did."

Aragorn found his shoulder and arm and began running his fingertips over the skin, sending sweet sensations through Faramir's body.

"Thank you for accepting me despite the limitations." Aragorn spoke in a low voice.

"What is it we say around here," Faramir said, "that there are no limits, only challenges that require creative solutions?"

"We say that?"

Faramir opened his eyes and glanced at him. "Well… maybe not. But it has a nice ring to it?"

He was met with the most brilliant smile in the world.

**tbc**

**Phew! There. It's 4 am, but now it's done! **

_**Meleth nín **_**is of course elvish for 'my love'. Tell me what you think; I'd like to continue a few chapters because I prefer stories that don't just end with the… er… coming together part. **


	10. Breathing

**Chapter 10 – Breathing**

It was exhausted, the Temperature decided. For weeks now it had been working hard at keeping the icy chill razor-sharp. It had coaxed the winds and the snows and the waters to remain freezing and frozen. Anyone could see that was not an easy task; especially snowflakes could be extremely undisciplined. The Temperature reminded itself to mention it to the Snow later that day, and if it did not listen, it would take the matter higher up. Perhaps it was time to let Winter itself in on the fact that the snowflakes were more often than not, very ill-behaved.

The Temperature was awfully pompous (even a little haughty, others nodded with a knowing expression). It could, if it liked, simply loosen its grip and let some warmer air flow in over Gondor, but there was some prestige in this. It was generally said that this was the coldest winter ever experienced, and the Temperature was rather proud of its deeds.

_No, not yet._

-oooo-

There were no images, only a very pleasant feeling; he was held by it as it cradled him lovingly. He had been in this state for some hours, dreaming of nothing, peacefully resting. All was gentleness and softness around him.

It was only when coolness brushed over his bare legs that Faramir found himself slipping out of his blissful sleep. Most unwilling to wake up, he opposed his senses by refusing to move and open his eyes. The cold was merciless however, and soon he was forced to reach for the covers and bury himself underneath them. He kept his eyes closed, though, as a kind of compromise.

After a little while he drifted off again, only to be startled by a grunt of dissatisfaction from somewhere close by. He tried to ignore this as well, but it became impossible as the groaning continued and even the bedroll on which he lay shifted.

Clearly annoyed by now, Faramir prepared to let the men know that he was not supposed to disturb their Captain's sleep; no orcs – no reason to wake him up.

One more grunt and he was wide awake with irritation welling up inside. Opening his eyes, he glared angrily in the direction of the noise.

In the dim light of dawn, what he saw was no simple Ranger in a camp, but a most upset King in a royal bed, a King who was desperately trying to move his legs. Faramir blinked and clamped his mouth shut.

Aragorn's hair was tousled and his handsome face was flushed. His chest was still bare – naturally, since he could not reach any shirts. He was still on his back, supporting himself on one elbow, while fighting his own unyielding lower body.

Faramir cleared his throat. Aragorn's head spun in his direction and the frown softened even though colour was still high in his cheeks.

"Oh," he said, looking a little sheepish, "did I wake you up?"

"Well… let us say that you made it impossible for me to continue sleeping."

"I am sorry." Aragorn gave up. He lay back and sighed. "This is impossible." He swept an arm through the air over his own body, indicating his attempts to move.

"Can I help you?"

"Hrm."

"Yes?" Faramir felt the small twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Aragorn muttered something inaudible.

"I heard it," Faramir said. "That was undoubtedly a yes."

Before the other man could protest, he scrambled to his knees and moved over.

"How do you want this done?"

"Oh I do not know!" Aragorn exclaimed, presenting a sour look.

Faramir fought his smile. "Well, how about this: have you tried lying on your side?"

More grunting.

"Have you?"

"Once, not long after the accident. Not too comfortable."

Faramir eyed him where he lay. It might be too much pressure on his hips, but then again, maybe it might relieve his lower back.

"Shall we try?"

"Hm."

Faramir dared to roll his eyes, but Aragorn saw nothing as he was stubbornly staring at the ceiling.

"Help me help you roll over."

He placed his hands on the covers, trying to locate Aragorn's hips. As his fingers moved over the material, Aragorn stirred and his glare changed into a devilish grin.

"Or I could simply lie still and enjoy this. There might be other body parts that need to be seen to."

Faramir felt the wave of heat that washed over him and supposed his face was bright red.

"Aragorn, be the good King you are and help me with this," he muttered.

"Yes, yes… fine."

With some effort, they finally had Aragorn positioned on his left side. Faramir let his hips fall forward, bending the King's right leg to such an angle that it helped support him. He pulled the covers up higher over him.

"How does it feel?"

"It is a nice change, thank you," smiled Aragorn.

Faramir sat back, quite content with the result. Aragorn looked relaxed and the frown was gone from his face.

"Do you know, Faramir," Aragorn began in a normal conversational tone, "that you are exceptionally unclothed?"

Faramir looked down. "Oh…"

"Not that I mind. It is a nice change." The grin was back.

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, Faramir lay down and covered himself up as well.

"Come here," Aragorn asked, reaching for his lover.

Faramir moved closer under the blankets. Aragorn dragged him nearer and was not content until he had Faramir's back pressed against his chest, holding him in place with one arm. Faramir had to admit to himself it was much more pleasant this way.

A yawn escaped the King. "I like this," he mused as he buried his nose in Faramir's copper locks.

The Steward felt the broad chest rising and falling against his back. It created a profound feeling of peace within and soon he felt drowsiness sneaking up on him. He felt his eyes drift shut.

"What time is it?" he sighed.

"Much too early," Aragorn whispered sleepily into his hair.

The King's hand slowly skimmed Faramir's chest.

"Good morning," Aragorn mumbled before they drifted off to sleep together.

-oooo-

Judging by the light, it was late morning when they woke for the second time that day. Groggy as he felt, Faramir lifted Aragorn's arm and managed to turn himself around so that he faced the King.

His grey eyes were closed and his unshaven chin gave him a slightly wilder look, despite his role these days. Lips slightly parted, strands of hair, brushed away from his forehead. Faramir lay watching him and felt a joyous spark being born in his chest. No more ice, he told himself once more. No more longing and no more stagnation.

Alright, a little longing was allowed. They still had duties.

Before him, Aragorn gave a content sigh, a dreamy smile growing on his lips.

"I missed you," he said tenderly.

"I am right here."

"I know. Very convenient."

Aragorn pulled him close and kissed him full on the lips. Faramir closed his eyes and let his instincts guide him. The King's tongue slipped inside his mouth, gently calling to his own tongue to wake up. Faramir kissed him back, wetting Aragorn's lips and making him moan softly.

Faramir shifted deeper into the embrace, thanking every deity he had ever heard of. Aragorn's body carried a musky scent of earth and bark, a scent that seemed to cling to him even though he was no longer the Ranger he had been.

It was when Aragorn tried to pull him even closer, that he broke the kiss with a sudden gasp.

"_Valar!_" he choked out, his breath irregular and shallow.

"Aragorn?!" Faramir was staring at him wildly, soft kisses abruptly forgotten. "What is it?"

The King had gone ghostly pale and his eyes conveyed burning pain.

"My legs…"

He was breathing too quickly.

"Aragorn… please… calm down. I will get help." Faramir sprang from the bed, roamed through the heap of clothes on the floor and found his leggings and shirt. With them barely on, he dashed for the door, only turning back to see his lover's shoulders heave up and down.

Faramir burst through the door and ran to the Healer's room. Banging on the door, he was let in and a few moments later they were back in the royal chambers.

-oooo-

Aragorn lay once more on his back, still pale but at least he was breathing easier.

_Deep, slow breaths. _

Faramir would have told him so, if he had not been shoved aside and backed up against the wall when the Healers took in the sight of their King. They hovered around him now, speaking in low voices among themselves. Faramir could not catch one word.

Finally, things calmed down and most Healers left the bedroom, save for one of them – a blond man who reminded Faramir oddly of Deren. This one had longer hair though, and was much older.

"My Steward?"

The Healer was approaching him. Faramir saw delicate lines in his face, around his eyes, but the man had an almost elvish air about him. He was certainly human, but he carried himself with the same dignity Faramir usually associated with the Elves. This made him uncomfortable, if he were not already so. He always felt very… much like a Man around the Elves. Clumsy.

Meeting Elrond, Aragorn's foster father had been a trying moment for him – and he and Aragorn had not even been… close then.

"Yes? How is the King?" He swallowed his nervousness.

"He will be fine." The elderly Healer turned and watched Aragorn who was sleeping now. "However…"

"What?" Faramir blurted out. So much for composure.

The Healer faced him again and there was a strange glint in his eyes. "However," he repeated slowly, "I urge you to… take some precautions."

Faramir regarded him confused. "I am sorry, I do not understand..?"

"The King's legs are weak and so is his lower back. He has worked hard to keep the muscles strong in his upper body, but that is not always enough. He must not put too much pressure on his legs."

Faramir nodded, he knew this already.

The Healer continued, "I know that it is trying for him… to sit down, to sleep on his back all the time. He is not suited for this, I think."

His voice was almost thoughtful. Faramir continued to nod, partly because he agreed and partly because he did not want to interrupt.

"Nonetheless, I will ask you – and I would ask the two of you, but the King is sleeping – that you are careful when you are together."

Faramir stifled a cry of surprise. Embarrassment flooded through him and his cheeks were burning up. He stared at the man in front of him, dreading another word on the matter, and really only wishing he would just sink through the floor, never to be seen again.

The Healer chuckled and placed a hand on his shoulder. "There now, nothing to be ashamed of." His eyes were definitely twinkling now. "There are some techniques you might find helpful, some positions that might not be so dangerous."

Faramir licked his lips but somehow found it impossible to breathe. He would die now. Just like that. His body would not be burned as had the bodies of his ancestors. He would be thrown into a ditch somewhere… maybe in Mordor? Probably the King's male lover's memory would be spat upon for eternity.

Or, he could simply save them the trouble and jump off the balcony. He had almost decided on that solution, when the Healer's voice brought back his attention.

"You had better get back to exhaling and inhaling, or I will have another patient to deal with."

Faramir resumed his breathing. He had no choice really. Aragorn might want to see him before he died...

"I gave the King some leaves…" The Healer was looking around the room, searching for the herbs. "To soak and help with the pain."

Faramir pointed to the small table across the room where Aragorn had stored away the leaves.

"Ah! Good. I suspect he has not been using them too often." He smiled almost fatherly in Faramir's direction. "I will bring some new ones, and check on him later."

Faramir watched him gather up the leaves Aragorn had left on the table, walk to the door and turn around.

"And I might give the two of you some advice while I am at it," he said shrewdly.

_Inhale. Exhale._

**tbc**


	11. Dining

**OK, this is not the most action filled chapter in the history of slash, but I like to work things through properly – and the boys needed to do some talking. Change of perspective as well: we're back in Aragorn's head.**

**Chapter 11 – Dining**

Aragorn was staring into space. He was utterly dumbstruck. Beside him, Faramir sat in complete silence. None of them had spoken a word since the door closed before them, and that had been a good long while ago.

Sitting on the bed with his back against the heavy headboard, he felt strangely detached from his own body. He vaguely suspected he would fail to focus on any thought that might have tried to cross his mind. Not that any did, as far as he could detect. All in all, Aragorn had lost all sense of reality and was now floating free in a hazy mist of numbness and disbelief.

At long last, he spoke in a slow voice:

"Faramir?"

He turned his head to fix his eyes on the younger man whose face carried a mostly blank look, although slightly tinted with doubt and incredulity.

"Mhm?"

"Did we just… Did he..?"

"I think so."

Aragorn turned back his head and resumed his staring.

Long moments passed.

"Aragorn?"

"Yes?"

"Do you mind killing him, please?"

A weak smile appeared on Aragon's lips.

"Do you not think there might be more worthy causes for Andúril?"

"No," Faramir answered him flatly.

Silence fell yet again between them as the afternoon grew older and dusk approached. Somewhere inside, Aragorn recognised hunger, but since he had no idea where his body ended or began, he found no solution. Instead he lowered his gaze and took in the pile of leaves, herbs and pots containing various creams that were lying in his lap.

The leaves were of the same sort that he had been given before, the ones he was expected to soak and place on his legs. No matter how good and reasonable a healer he was himself, and withstanding the fact that he probably would have ordered the same treatment to someone in his own condition – Faramir would laugh himself to death over this when he saw it.

"Aragorn?"

"Yes…"

"If we survive this, will you have dinner with me tonight? Alone?"

"I am beginning to think we did survive, so yes."

"Good."

Aragorn drew a few deep breaths and before they could slip back into their shared state of shock, he turned back to Faramir and caught his eye.

"We should rise now, before we turn into stone trolls."

Faramir nodded and gradually began to awaken his dormant body. He bent forward to stretch his back, he lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes, he stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes. Amused, Aragorn watched this last action.

"Wriggle mine for me, will you?" he suggested.

Faramir smiled, the first real smile since that morning, and shook his head. "Nah, I only have so much energy."

However, despite his own words, Faramir got out of bed and walked over to the window. He leaned closer to the glass and then with an exasperated groan he flung his hands into the air.

"I do not believe it! More snow!"

He spun around and Aragorn caught sight of those emotional eyes which were burning with frustration. The room was lit only by a couple of oil lamps and since none of them had stirred the fire for hours, the shadows were creeping forward from their corners.

Faramir stood in his wrinkled white shirt with his copper locks all ruffled and messy. Had the room been a little darker, he might have passed off for a ghostly vision – albeit a handsome one – but now, with his displeased and annoyed expression, he mostly resembled a glum adolescent. Aragorn decided his appearance indeed was a mixture of a hungry hobbit and a wind-blown, grumpy Gimli. His height being the main difference.

Also deciding this would not be the best time to tell his lover exactly that, Aragorn rested the back of his head against the headboard and gave an encouraging smile.

"Even this winter will end at some point," he said.

Faramir frowned. "You suddenly seem very comfortable," he said. "Was it not you who hated this constant snowing?"

"Ah, yes," Aragorn agreed, "I did. But it appears things have changed since then and I have everything I need right here." He inclined his head to Faramir and was pleased to see, even in the growing darkness, the Steward blush.

"Well, I want to be able to go outdoors without freezing to death in an instant," he muttered.

"Meaning you prefer being outside than in my company?" said Aragorn.

"Of course not!" Faramir immediately cried out, eliciting a broad smile from his King. "I only meant that with some finer weather maybe _both of us_ could go outside together."

"Oh, a very good reply!" Aragorn laughed. "Now come over to my side and help me rise please?"

Faramir did as he was bidden and with joint effort, Aragorn was pulled to his feet. Having not been out of bed all day, his body was unused to standing up and he rested against the strong frame of the other man for a few minutes. Faramir held him close and now and then ran his fingers over Aragorn's back, sending shivers of pleasure through him.

With Faramir's help, he had dressed sometime in between the Healer's visits but both of them were still barefooted and the stone floor was cold.

"I should get a rug for the floor," he commented.

Faramir chuckled. "You are too romantic, Aragorn," he said. "Here I am – how did you put it – 'everything you needed', and you are thinking about carpets?"

"I am being practical," Aragorn defended himself. "If I can cover up these tiles of ice, you can hold me like this for much longer."

"Or at least until dinner."

Aragorn backed away from him slightly and took hold of his shoulders. He studied the Steward's face before him intently, searched it.

"What is this now, Faramir…" he said softly, feeling a smile growing in his heart. "You are answering back in a different way. Is this…" He tipped his head to one side. "Is this confidence I see?"

The younger man in front of him bit his lip and refused to meet his gaze. Instead he studied the floor, as if to decide where indeed to place the potential rug.

Aragorn tried to make him look up, but Faramir's only answer to his efforts was to close the temporary distance between them and bury his face in the crook of Aragorn's neck. The King was now the one who brought his arms around his lover and stroked his hair fondly.

"I like it," he whispered.

He did. It was as if Faramir was finally stepping out of the shell that seemed to hold him captive.

_And as the shell opens, the pearl shines even brighter than I ever thought possible._

"I like it," he repeated. "I am honoured."

Faramir only buried his face deeper among Aragorn's dark tresses, but being as close as they were, it was easy for the King to notice how the other man's breathing first quickened and then slowed down again.

After a little while, still stroking his hair, Aragorn spoke once more:

"Now, I _am_ hungry, love. I believe you said that was when you would let go…"

Faramir dove out of his embrace and stood facing him. In the faint, but warm light of the lamps, Aragorn saw two wet streaks trailing down his cheeks. Ever so tenderly he stroked his thumbs against the soft skin underneath Faramir's eyes. Then he gently kissed him, placing his lips against those offered. He simply let them rest there, as if performing a sacred act.

When he deemed them both steady enough, Aragorn slowly released him and in silence they pulled on the rest of their clothes, keeping close to each other.

After extinguishing the oil lamps, Faramir held up the door for Aragorn who stepped through and into the much brighter corridor. Moving forward, it did not take long before Aragorn accepted the arm Faramir offered him. Continuing on quietly, fingers soon entwined, and during the brief stops Aragorn needed, he sank into Faramir's embrace gratefully.

As they gradually made their way towards the dining hall, Aragorn rejoiced in the peace that grew in his mind and extended to his stomach. And during their next break, when Faramir kissed him ever so slowly and leisurely, Aragorn realised he cared not the tiniest bit if anyone saw them – and judging by the way Faramir's tongue sneaked into his mouth, the Steward minded not either.

-oooo-

Arriving in the dining hall had meant confronting reality and a piece of the outside world. King and Steward were met by a couple of anxious servants who were wondering when to serve what where and for whom.

It took a few moments for Aragorn to realise they were referring to his guests from Erelas, still in Minas Tirith and presumably hungry.

It felt strange, to be reminded of them. And yet, it was only yesterday he had pointed out – by taking matters into his own hands, so to speak – to Deren that he was not planning on giving Faramir up for anything. As if Faramir were an elegant piece of furniture. But desperate times require desperate measures, and things had turned out very well, if Aragorn was any judge.

But no matter how much of a statement he had made, he felt not the least inclined to dine with Deren and the others, and also, he had promised Faramir they would eat alone. Therefore, he now ordered the servants to set the great table in the dining hall for the guests, while he and Faramir would dine in private, in a smaller room.

He led Faramir towards a pair of doors and ushered him inside.

"Why do you smile like that," Aragorn asked curiously when they had settled down near the fireplace. "Not that I mind, of course," he added, not wanting the other man to think he was doing something wrong.

A peculiar smile had grown on Faramir's lips since they first stepped inside and he was now looking about the room as if he knew something Aragorn did not.

"I was here before," he explained. "I came here after the council, to clear my head. Or to simply disappear," he added with a shrug. "I left my coat here as well. Coming back inside, it was soaked through. I am afraid I forgot all about it." He nodded at one of the chairs near the balcony door.

Aragorn turned in his seat to look for himself but no coat was to be seen.

"You are lucky, then, that you live in a palace. Your coat is probably back in your room, washed and dry." He shook his head. "Sometimes I miss my Ranger days," he mused, fondly remembering his old, well-worn dark green cloak which had mysteriously disappeared when he became King.

"Only sometimes?" asked Faramir softly.

Aragorn felt his eyes burning into him, bringing forth feelings and memories he almost always did his best to suppress.

"Slightly more often than that," he admitted, resting his head against the back of his armchair.

The room was bathing in a soft light, spread by both candles and oil lamps. It was small, so the flickering flames in the only fireplace were enough to keep it warm and comfortable. The modest heat was such a difference from the perpetual cold that seemed to penetrate every part of the palace that Aragorn felt uplifted despite his lingering melancholy memories.

"Let us not dwell on times long past," he decided. "I want to concentrate on the present."

He leaned forward and reached for Faramir's hand as if he needed the touch to remind him of what he had gained, rather than what he had lost. To simplify things, Faramir pulled up his own armchair alongside Aragorn's, so close that he was able to rest his head on the King's shoulder without too much trouble.

Aragorn stroked his hand, found a faint scar that he followed with his fingertips and traced an invisible pattern in his palm, enjoying Faramir's struggle not to scratch it.

"You do know that I have loved you for a long time?" Aragorn asked him quietly.

It was both a question and a statement; for many months they had circled around each other, knowing and yet wondering at the same time. He wished to make sure.

"I fell in love with you at once," Faramir said in a low voice. "I think you symbolised everything that should have been for many years…" he trailed off.

Aragorn continued to caress his hand.

"When you spoke to me, you looked at me – you _saw_ me. It was new to me," he finished finally.

"It was hard not to look at you," Aragorn replied, smiling to himself when he recalled their first meetings, when matters of state had slipped his mind completely as the late Steward's youngest son had walked into the room.

Faramir moved uneasily against his shoulder. "You know what I mean," he mumbled.

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, I know," he soothed. "I know."

There came a knock and the door to the antechamber opened. The same two servants stepped inside and if they reacted to the way their King and Steward were sitting, they did not show it. Instead, they produced a small table to place between the couple and the fire. Swiftly they laid it, left and came back with food and wine.

In silence, the King watched them work. Faramir was still resting his head on his shoulder but Aragorn had noticed how his breath caught when the servants came in. Therefore, he made a point of not moving. Twice, he had asked Faramir to stay and this time around he was not going to let him down.

"Is there anything else, my lord?" the remaining servant asked him now, a woman of thirty perhaps. Aragorn remembered having encountered her in the City, just after the War. Her husband had been found among the dead, and she had three small children to feed so Aragorn had offered a place among his staff.

Of course, she was far from the only widow who needed help, but at least it was something. To her, it had meant a lot, he saw that.

Giving her a warm smile he shook his head. "Not at present, thank you."

She gave a nod and left, cautiously closing the door behind her. If Aragorn was not wholly deceived, he thought he noted a hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth.

Faramir stirred in his seat, sat up properly and let out a long breath.

"You were not nervous, were you?" Aragorn teased him.

"No," Faramir answered as his pale cheeks regained some colour. "I am only exhaling. I have been told I should do so on a regular basis."

Aragorn regarded him curiously but Faramir showed no sign of further explaining his words. Instead he lifted the pitcher and poured wine for them both. Aragorn accepted his cup and as they shared the first drink, he was beginning to feel very relaxed indeed.

**tbc**

**But what was the mysterious beginning all about? And what does Aragorn mean when he speaks of stone trolls? And where exactly IS Faramir's coat? Ah, so many questions! **


	12. Sitting

**Alternative title of this chapter: 'The very many chairs' or 'Why is there no good synonym for 'chair'?' After dinner comes dessert! If you prefer tea and cake, please skip this chapter. **

**Chapter 12 – Sitting**

The sky had cleared and the moon was riding the dark heavens in the southeast, steadily climbing higher and higher. The winter stars, for once, were able to shine down without being covered up by snow-filled clouds. Fascinated, they now and then peered in through the windows, studying how the King and the Steward tried to move closer to each other while seated in different chairs.

Unaware of this, Aragorn, mesmerised, was watching how Faramir picked up a handful of dried cranberries and unhurriedly ate them one by one. Upon imagining how they would clash with the sweetness of his Steward's mouth, Aragorn knew he was more than a little affected by the wine.

After their last visit, when they had brought some more wood for the fire and wine for the table, Aragorn had bid the servants withdraw for the night – if the delegation from Erelas had no more demands. Now they were alone, and the King found he appreciated that to such an extent, he almost began to wonder about his own, normally well grounded, sanity.

However, at seeing Faramir lick his lips after finishing off the berries, he happily let go of all such ponderings.

"You are eyeing me most intently, my lord," Faramir smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Is there anything you wish to ask?"

He had shifted in his armchair, sitting diagonally in it so that he might face Aragorn a little easier. A small part of the King envied the ease with which he moved about – not mentioning the many ways in which he was able to place his legs – but the greater part of him had accepted his situation.

"Well?" Faramir persisted and leaned forward.

By the way his eyes had glazed over, Aragorn could tell the wine had some power over him as well.

"No," he answered, "no questions."

"No? I am disappointed," Faramir stated, holding his gaze. "Nothing at all you wish to communicate?"

Aragorn returned his smile. "Now that you mention it," he said, "there might be something we need to engage in. But you need to get over here."

Promptly, Faramir shuffled closer and without waiting, Aragorn caught his lips in a possessive kiss.

They sat kissing for a while until Faramir cringed uneasily.

"I need to move," he groaned into Aragorn's mouth. "My back is telling me this is not an ideal position."

The King reluctantly let him go and sank back into his armchair, watching the other man scan the room with a look of deep dissatisfaction.

"Only chairs," Faramir concluded at last. "Makes things more complicated."

Aragorn had trouble hiding his smile. Yet again, his lover managed to make a charming picture: his hair slightly dishevelled, and once more he wore one of those frowns that made him look years younger. However, this time, the undertone of pure lust was apparent, he saw as he studied Faramir's face and movements. Aragorn had no complaints.

"Chairs…" he mused, "it might be a good thing, you know."

"How is that?" Faramir shot him a quizzical glance.

"Well, if I remember correctly, we were… hrm, encouraged… to try that particular… arrangement," he finished off rather lamely, remembering with embarrassment the Healer's never-ending lesson on techniques and positions.

"Oh."

Two hands went straight for the table and two cups of wine were lifted and brought to two separate mouths. Aragorn drank down most of the dark red liquid in a desperate attempt to forget what he had been forced to listen to that afternoon.

Naturally, a part of him was grateful that they had been provided with ideas on how to… proceed with matters, it was just the circumstances that bothered him – and maybe that the Healer so obviously enjoyed to see them blush and mutter incomprehensible curses. With a fatherly nod, he had, at long last, ended his sermon and with an expectant pat on Aragorn's shoulder he had wished them good luck, and bid them seek him out if they experienced any 'trouble'.

"So…" he said now, replacing his cup on the table.

"Right," Faramir offered.

Then things seemed to shatter completely for him and Aragorn broke into sudden laughter.

"This is insane," he panted between breaths.

Faramir sat watching him with an expression of amused bewilderment. He took another sip of wine but said nothing.

Aragorn collected himself enough to speak properly.

"I am sorry," he smiled, shaking his head. "It has been a long day. Where were we?"

"In a chair," Faramir winked at him. "Or rather, in separate ones, unfortunately."

"You know that can be arranged."

"Yes… that is true…" Faramir presented a serious face. "But you know, Aragorn…" He paused.

"What is it that I know?" Aragorn eyed him carefully, as if the answer would appear on his forehead, much like the script on the One Ring among flames.

"It means we will have to deal with what happened this afternoon. Can you handle that?"

Faramir might just as well have undressed right there, right then. A tingle of excitement ran through Aragorn as he returned the challenging look the other man sent him.

"Indeed, I can," he said. "And I will prove it."

He watched as Faramir, a little unsteady, got up, lifted the small table – along with its contents – from its place in front of the fire, and set it down where it would not be in their way. Then he positioned his own chair in front of Aragorn's so they could face each other.

Sitting down again, he gave an awkward smile. "I am drunk," he admitted.

Aragorn leaned forward so their knees touched, and placed a hand on each of Faramir's thighs. "And so am I."

He had never before been kissed by Faramir in such a fashion; up until this point their kisses had, with a few exceptions, mostly been tentative, sweet and lingering. It was still sweet, but much bolder and far more daring.

Faramir's lips crashed against his own and almost immediately, his tongue swept inside Aragorn's mouth. One hand wove into his hair and drew him even closer, while the other snaked around his waist and savagely tugged at his tunic. When pulling at it resulted in nothing particular, Faramir abandoned this mode of procedure and instead worked his way underneath the material.

Aragorn was so taken aback by this new attitude, that for a couple of seconds, he barely knew how to respond. Even if it was all due to the wine, he was certain he liked it. Soon, he found his wits and had the decency to moan appreciatively as determined fingers brushed over his nipples. He heard the rasp of the other chair against the floor as Faramir tried to eliminate the remaining distance between them.

"Closer," he groaned when Faramir let him go long enough to catch his breath.

"Cannot – too many chairs."

He found Faramir's lower lip and caught it between his teeth. Sucking on it, he drew a long, low sigh from its owner. Satisfied with the reaction, Aragorn released him.

"Too many?"

Faramir was seated on the very edge of his armchair and his hands were still moving across Aragorn's chest underneath the tunic. They slowed down as he fixed the King with a firm stare.

"I think so," he stated. "One has to go."

"Time for some reminiscing, then."

Under normal circumstances (less wine), Aragorn might have been nervous – and he was quite sure Faramir would have been so as well. They would have discussed it; every possible problem and difficulty would have been brought up, examined and dealt with. That was probably a good thing, given that this situation was still new to them. The thing was, Aragorn realised, that right now, he cared nothing for precautions of that type.

Managing to push the image of the Healer to the very back of his mind, without forgetting his advice, he slid down lower in his armchair. Faramir, who interpreted his movements correctly, withdrew his hands from underneath the tunic, got to his feet and fetched a fairly large cushion that belonged to one of the other chairs. On his way back, he took the opportunity to add some wood to the fire which merrily sprung up in the fireplace.

Stooping over him, Faramir bent down and placed a kiss on Aragorn's lips, while handing him the cushion. The King slipped it behind his back, and gratefully rested against it.

Responding to the kiss, he felt Faramir's hands beginning to tug at his clothing once more, but this time he stopped him. Soon enough they would undress, but there was something he wanted to try with his lover before that.

Letting go of the Steward's lips, and feeling very bold indeed, he raised his hands and caught hold of the laces that held Faramir's leggings together. Slowly he untied them, but it was not until he actually revealed, and touched, the half-awakened arousal he found there, that Faramir drew a sharp breath.

Bringing his mouth very close to the flesh, he spoke in a voice that was low enough to match his mood, but loud enough to be heard:

"I want to do this for you, since you will be doing very much for me."

Without waiting for a response, he tenderly placed a kiss on the skin before him, not failing to notice the tremor that ran through Faramir, and not being able to ignore the hands that took a firm grip on his shoulders. It had been long since Aragorn pleased a man in this way, but he doubted he had forgotten how it was done.

Faramir's manhood lay embedded in soft, curly hair; in the firelight it glowed with the same copper tone as the hair on his head did. Another kiss he placed there, and then another. He planted a series of kisses along the shaft that hardened visibly at the touch.

It sounded almost as if Faramir was holding his breath above him, and Aragorn chanced a peek at him. Faramir was standing with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.

If it had not happened earlier, the full potential of this night suddenly hit Aragorn.

"Open your eyes," he said softly, "I want you to see everything. How beautiful you are."

Faramir slowly did as he requested. And even slower he lowered his gaze. His eyes widened as he registered the image of Aragorn's lips so close to his arousal.

"That is it," whispered Aragorn, "keep watching."

With those words he set to work.

With one hand he held on to Faramir's hips, and he used his other to extract the full length of his arousal from underneath the fabric. He licked the member from the base and up, eliciting a moan and a shudder from the other man. Gently, he pushed back the skin that hid the swollen head and circled it with the tip of his tongue. Faramir's fingers increased their grip on his shoulders.

"Do you like it?" Aragorn asked, forcing himself to hold back. He was feeling the force of his own arousal plainly, but he wanted to prolong the night as much as possible.

"Yes," Faramir answered him in a voice gone hoarse from unexpected stimulation.

This time, after one more stroke of his tongue, Aragorn took the hard shaft in his mouth and sucked carefully. A gasp told him at least he had accomplished something, and seconds later, a hand in his hair, urging him on, let him know he was doing well.

He sucked harder then, and was pleased to notice how Faramir began to respond. The hips Aragorn still held on to mimicked his mouth's movements, and even though the thrusts were small, they were there. His breathing, albeit heavy, was steadier and more regular.

Releasing his hips, Aragorn's hand began to explore the skin underneath the tunic Faramir wore. He could feel both of the Steward's hands in his hair now.

The swollen shaft was throbbing as Aragorn stroked it, rather forcefully, with his tongue. Faramir let out a deep groan and abruptly removed one of his hands from among Aragorn's tresses. Swiftly, he pulled out a little from the wet cavern of the King's mouth, and pinched the base of his length hard.

As Aragorn looked up on him, he could see that his chest was heaving, and there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were slightly unfocused, but on his lips had formed a sweet smile.

"Not yet," Faramir said hoarsely, "I believe there is more to come."

He shrugged out of his leggings that slid to the floor and landed around his boots in a heap. Kicking them off, he also got rid of the leggings, and seconds later he had pulled off his tunic as well. Still very much aroused, he fell to his knees between Aragorn's legs, his back to the fire.

"Are you cold?" he asked, making an odd picture as he himself was completely undressed.

Aragorn smiled, shaking his head. The flames in the fireplace spread their warmth generously – for once he had no need of a blanket wrapped around him. "No."

As Faramir pulled off his boots, Aragorn undid the laces on his own leggings. He waited until the Steward was done with his feet before he attempted to undress any more.

When Faramir's eyes landed on Aragorn's groin he raised an eyebrow and flashed a grin.

"Good to see I am not the only one…" he said, helping his King out of the unnecessary constraints, including his tunic.

Aragorn watched as the warm, orange light skidded across his lover's skin as he moved. It highlighted his muscles where it reached, and created a stunning backdrop to the scene that was played out before him.

Faramir, still on his knees, placed a palm against Aragorn's chest, and ran it down his upper body. He followed his own progress intently as his hand slid lower and came to a rest on Aragorn's bare stomach.

Silently, Aragorn willed it lower. He wanted to be touched, wanted that hand around his arousal which twitched as the image appeared in his mind.

"You know…" he said, not knowing how to word his thoughts, "we have _made love_… I would like to…" He made a vague gesture with his hand and tried to look as comfortable and sure of himself as he had been only moments ago.

Faramir raised his eyes to meet him. "You mean…" Traces of his former grin were still on his lips. "You mean that you simply want to…" He inclined his head in an agreeing sort of way.

"Some of that bravery and boldness would do," Aragorn suggested, relaxing a little.

A light appeared in the younger man's eyes at the words – a light that went right to Aragorn's stomach and there transformed into a small firework.

"Boldness…" Faramir mused, "yes, I think we can have some of that…" He let his hand travel further down. "Now, what was it that we were told today? That first of all, we should be comfortable. Are you comfortable, Aragorn?" he asked as his fingers encircled the risen royal member.

A wave of pleasure and satisfaction washed over Aragorn as the man in front of him began stroking. "Yes, definitely comfortable," he sighed, raising his hips a little as to underline his statement.

The King felt himself swell in Faramir's hand; heat streamed through his body and pooled in his groin.

"And you?" he asked.

"I am very comfortable," Faramir assured him, voice slightly raspy. "Which leads us to the next question: are we aroused enough?" He brushed his thumb across the sensitive tip of the heated flesh in his hand.

At the touch, Aragorn groaned, and felt the rest of his body quickly melting away. "Can you not feel that," he grunted, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling.

"True, I can. But we are supposed to make sure."

"Then I need to feel you."

The stroking ceased and something shifted around him. When Aragorn opened his eyes, he found that Faramir was standing on his feet, leaning over him, hands on the armrests of Aragorn's chair. His hardened member arched out from his body.

"Question number three," Aragorn murmured, "will you manage this position?"

Faramir let go of one of the armrests and held out his hand in which lay a small vial of oil.

"There is only one way to find out," he smirked. "But you have not yet made absolutely sure I am aroused enough."

Aragorn took the oil and coated his fingers, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

_Oh, yes, he would make sure._

He leaned forward, but contrary to what Faramir had meant, he slid his hand around his backside and instantly searched for the opening that would take them to the next stage.

Faramir inhaled sharply when he realised what Aragorn was doing. "You are not following protocol!" he hissed as Aragorn's fingertips brushed his orifice. Nonetheless, he spread his legs a little wider.

"I got carried away," the King smiled and raised himself up further so his lips came close to Faramir's bobbing manhood.

As he slid one finger inside his lover's body he simultaneously kissed the flesh presented to him. Faramir moaned deeply above him.

Aragorn knew the importance of this hour. The last time he had done this, things had been profoundly different. Casting away all thoughts on doubt and insecurity, which proved to be surprisingly easy once he had made the decision, he thanked the Valar for wine, and then slid a second finger inside the tight channel he was about to breach.

He scissored and stretched, eliciting groans from Faramir as his muscles reacted to the intrusion and then gradually relaxed. Adding one more finger, Aragorn began to feel very hot and ready himself. Faramir swayed backwards in the only motion that enabled him to stay in his pose and also bring Aragorn's fingers deeper into him.

Kissing the head of Faramir's engorged shaft, he asked, "Ready?"

Faramir nodded vigorously. "Yes… yes."

"I want you." Aragorn's body was screaming, the tip of his member leaking already.

Briefly letting go of Faramir, he used some more oil to, as quickly as his mind might work his hands, slick himself to further ease the way.

"Tell me if I hurt you."

Aragorn met the eyes of his love. "If you hurt me?"

-oooo-

He smiled. He knew it was a silly smile: a blend of excitement, lust, possessiveness and love. Nevertheless, he smiled – as Faramir stepped back and he slid down even lower in his armchair. As Faramir placed one foot on either side of his legs, leaned forward and supported himself by holding on to the armrests. As he lowered himself down onto Aragorn's throbbing arousal. He smiled all along.

They moved together; the heat that surrounded the King wrapped around his Steward as well and he was breathing deeply. Faramir did his best to use his strength not to crash down on Aragorn too hard, and Aragorn held back, not wanting to thrust too wildly.

Now it was Faramir who was leaking; pearly drops formed on the tip of his shaft, wetting Aragorn's skin.

Summoning his last shreds of intelligence, Aragorn placed a hand over his lover's hardness and caressed it in any way he could manage. It was not very elegantly done, he supposed, since he was too focused on his presence inside Faramir, but at least it was something.

To Faramir it did not seem to matter in which way he did it. The Steward let out a loud moan and desperately tried to reach Aragorn's mouth with his lips. It proved impossible as Aragorn's thrusts increased at the sight of his lover responding to him so. He heard himself groan as he rode the same waves of pleasure.

Brushing against the tight bundle of nerves somewhere inside that heat, Aragorn felt Faramir shudder and tremble against him. A few more strokes and Faramir came with a growl and a cry, his seed shooting over Aragorn's stomach.

His ecstasy had Aragorn almost falling off the edge as well. Faramir was panting and shaking before him, eyes closed and with hair that was one great mess of sweaty curls.

"Come for me, Aragorn," he asked hoarsely.

Tightness exploded into a cascade of sparks. Crying out, Aragorn spent himself deep within Faramir who finally collapsed against him.

Not minding to pull out of his lover, Aragorn wrapped his arms around him and together they rocked, experiencing the beautiful, shaky aftermath.

-oooo-

The person who had been standing outside the room had not missed the cries of ecstasy that seeped through the closed door.

Eyes narrowed and a plan began to take form.

**tbc**

**Not that there's anything wrong with tea and cakes. Just wanted to make that clear.**


	13. Drifting

**Chapter 13 – Drifting**

He had a magnificent headache. He was not quite sure why it was magnificent but most probably it was because it reminded him so effectively of the previous night. And indeed it was a night to remember.

Unfortunately, this was not the optimal time for reminiscing. He supposed it was no more than fair, since they had done a great share of recalling and memory-evoking only hours ago. Still, it would have been nice to simply… stay in bed. The royal one, into which they had stumbled after sitting in the small, comfortable antechamber much longer than planned.

Real life, though, complete with duties, obligations and responsibilities had at last come upon them in the morning. And now, here he was, in the council hall, with a blanket wrapped around his legs and that headache which told him he had slept far less that he ought to, but – who was he to complain?

A blond figure entered the room and walked smoothly towards a chair. He sat down elegantly, and offered a nod and a courteous smile to the King.

Well, maybe there were some reasons for complaining after all.

"It seems the snowing has ceased," said Deren.

"Apparently so," agreed Aragorn.

He was saved from further conversation as the other men entered the council hall and took their places at the table.

Faramir came in last, as always heavily burdened by scrolls, maps and other documents. He showed no sign of being as exhausted as he probably was, even though he did look tired. Aragorn managed to hide his smile as he remembered how his lover had groaned when the rays of sunlight no longer could be ignored as morning inevitably had proceeded.

His Steward dropped everything he carried on the table in a most unceremonious way, and slumped into an empty chair at the far end. Aragorn watched him intently, but he told himself he was allowed to do that. This man was his part of his staff after all.

_Put like that, it is both horrible and exciting what we have done._

"My lord?"

Aragorn met Faramir's inquiring gaze with a puzzled look. He had no idea what he was being questioned about.

"My, lord," Faramir repeated, "everyone is here, shall we begin?"

Aragorn inclined his head. "Yes," he said, not feeling very eloquent.

Faramir spread the various maps over the wooden surface and immediately everyone began poring over them.

"Somewhere here," Forn tapped the map with a forefinger, "is a small settlement that may have to be seen to even before this winter has ended. There are a few families there, living off what the earth can give them but no more than that. If we want them to survive, we had better make sure they are alive to begin with."

Aragorn sighed inwardly, already tired of this. 'We' in this case meant 'you' as in 'the King' or alternatively his men. Of course he did not desire people to die, and as he had pointed out on several occasions, these men of his – Rangers and soldiers – had roamed the lands for weeks, doing what they could.

Forn kept on talking and Aragorn found it hard to concentrate. His eyes started to wander about the room and very soon came to rest on Faramir.

The man was bent over the table, appearing to be studying the map before him, but by the way his fingers absentmindedly toyed with the corner of one of the documents, Aragorn could tell he also had some problems focusing. His copper locks fell around his face, letting anyone who cared to take a closer look know that he had not been particularly interested in his looks that morning. There were faint, dark circles under his eyes.

Aragorn watched as Faramir raised a hand to support his head while he continued to blankly stare at the papers before him. His movements were slow as if he had little energy to spare. He sat unmoving and no words escaped him.

There was an expression of nothingness in his features. He appeared emptied of most emotions, and that stirred an uncomfortable feeling within Aragorn. As he watched, the shadows under Faramir's eyes seemed to deepen and take over his whole face. The shades mingled efficiently with the growing uneasy sensation in Aragorn's stomach, gaining ground as they quickly grew in power together.

There was a slight pressure on his chest now; Aragorn was lost to this dreaded, unwelcome feeling. He could not tear his eyes away. Faramir's lips were pale, his normally lightly coloured lashes suddenly contrasted sharply against the ashen skin. A heavy weight settled on Aragorn's mind and forced his heart to open up to very unsettling possibilities.

In a floating motion the young man tilted his head and Aragorn spotted more of those shadows and ghostly marks. Faramir's unseeing eyes met his King's and ever so slowly a smile spread across his lips.

Aragorn could see the twinkle in those beautiful eyes. He took in the strands of gleaming red in his hair. He saw how the pale cheeks that had lived without proper sunlight for days were tinted with a rosy hue.

It became easier to breathe as his awareness narrowed and that smile enwrapped him – the smile that was just for him. And Aragorn smiled back, poured every ounce of love in his body into it, sending his affections across the table for Faramir to take as much as he liked. Forgetting about roads and barns, trees and huts, images of last night danced before Aragorn's eyes.

_They were both breathing heavily, and for a long time that was the only thing Aragorn heard. The fire could have blazed brightly, spread across the room and set every panel and curtain on fire, but he would not have noticed. Finally, Faramir had collapsed against him, despite his vow not to hurt the King. _

_Aragorn slowly opened his eyes to the sight of Faramir's sweat covered hair. He breathed in the tantalising scent of lovemaking as his shoulders gradually stopped heaving._

_Faramir sighed deeply and in the lowest voice possible, he whispered, "I love you."_

"I highly dislike this!"

Aestor had placed his hands on the oaken surface and was surveying the assembled men with a discontent glare.

Aragorn blinked. Colour rushed into Faramir's cheeks, his smile faded and he quickly pulled himself upright. Not that Aragorn minded really, but this was perhaps not the best way to tell his subjects that they would not be seeing a Queen by his side in the near future. Or ever, if he had any say in it.

"It is so frustrating," Aestor continued, "to know everything but not being able to anything about it!" He swept his arm over the documents on the table.

"Yes," Deren said in a slow, contemplating voice. "So it seems. However, problems are meant to be solved, is it not so?"

"I suppose," grumbled Aestor.

Aragorn only listened with half a mind. Realisation had just dawned upon him that, at some point – if by the grace of the Valar things stayed this wonderful – he would have to make his choice of partner official. The question was: how would his people react? And even more importantly: how would _Faramir _react?

Because he wanted it to be official. No way was he going to sneak around in his own home, hiding in dark corners late at night on his way to his lover. Nor did he want Faramir to do the same. There would be no stolen kisses, abruptly broken as somebody walked into the room. He wanted to be able to walk through the corridors of this place, proud and tall, with his chosen love by his side.

So far, three people knew: the Healer and the two servants. No, make that four, Aragorn thought, a resentful sensation in his breast, Deren knew as well.

No, he would waste no energy on that man. Instead he imagined how it would be like if every future night was spent in the same way as had been the previous. Yesterday, they had hid from no one.

_They were standing face to face just inside the still closed door. The fire was almost extinguished and the gleaming embers offered very little light. They had pulled on the necessary tunics, leggings and boots, but without bothering to clean themselves up first; the skin on Aragorn's stomach was sticky from Faramir's seed. Now they were about to leave this haven._

_Aragorn moved closer, placing a hand underneath his lover's chin. He caught the glimmer in the other man's eyes and smiled. _

"_I love __you__."_

_Faramir kissed him then._

_Had Aragorn been strong enough, he would have taken Faramir by the arm and dashed through the hallways to his bedchamber. Now it was not so. Instead, he gratefully leaned against the stronger man and allowed him to lead him towards the royal chambers. _

_As they walked, he felt Faramir's arm encircle his waist underneath his tunic. _

"_I miss you," he explained hoarsely._

"_Almost there," Aragorn nodded towards the door that had appeared in the shadows further down the hall, sparks shooting through his body._

"_I really miss you," Faramir complained, his hand now tugging at Aragorn's waistband._

_They did not make it to the door. Aragorn turned on his heel, and pushed his lover against the wall. _

"_I want you," he stated before his tongue plundered his lover's mouth._

_No, they did not make it to the door, not at once._

An icy chill swept through the council hall and startled Aragorn out of his reverie. He wrapped the blanket more firmly around his legs, wishing he had a second one to drape around his shoulders. His headache had almost disappeared, but instead the straining muscles in his back had begun to make themselves known.

The others were still talking; Aragorn was glad that he was basically only needed to agree on, or refuse, whichever ideas and plans arose. Had matters been different, he would have been more engaged he told himself, but they had already been through all of this a thousand times already. It seemed that his mere presence was enough and hopefully the same went for Faramir.

He shivered and rubbed his palms against each other. His actions did not go unnoticed.

"My lord?" Faramir had worry written all over his face. "Are you cold?"

The conversation died down a little around them as Aragorn felt several pairs of eyes fall upon him.

"I am, a little," he admitted, suddenly feeling like a miserable old man, one who could nor concentrate, nor keep himself warm.

Faramir quickly rose to his feet. "I will stir the fire."

He did more than that. He added more wood to the flames and ordered the servants to bring them all some mulled wine, not containing much alcohol but spices enough to energise you.

Meanwhile, the guests resumed their debate for which Aragorn was rather thankful. Returning to the table, Faramir stopped by Aragorn's side and after briefly hesitating – his emotions clearly playing in his eyes – he placed a hand on the King's shoulder.

As Aragorn looked up into his eyes and met his gaze, Faramir asked quietly:

"You alright?"

"Yes, thank you."

Faramir only raised an eyebrow.

"Tired," Aragorn confessed, with a small, cautious smile.

"End this madness?"

"Please."

"I will see what I can do." The other man made a face, a grimace that lasted only a second, but managed to convey exactly what he thought of the council so far.

They fell silent. Faramir bit his lip. Aragorn swallowed.

Reluctantly, the hand was lifted from his shoulder. He felt the loss of the touch carry through his entire body. The room was cold once more.

The heated wine was brought to them and Aragorn gratefully wrapped his fingers around his jug. He drank slowly as his mind drifted off again.

_They lay buried underneath several heavy layers of blankets and quilts. Faramir's naked body was pressed against his own equally unshielded one, and their breathing had begun to calm down. Sated and drowsy they lay, on the very edge of sleep, but not wanting to let go just yet._

"_That was brilliant," Aragorn smiled into his lover's messed-up hair._

"_Mmm… had to be, after the way you molested me in the hallway."_

"_You liked it, I could tell."_

"_Perhaps." Faramir carefully turned to face him, mindful to not disturb the King's comfortable position. "You may do it again."_

_Aragorn kissed him on his forehead. "I will remember that."_

_He closed his eyes and was about to give in to the night when Faramir's sleepy voice came to him:_

"_Do you know what the funny thing is?"_

"_No?"_

"_I actually like snow."_

Snow.

"Gentlemen." Faramir was standing up behind the table again. "I believe we have reached the end of our discussions. Minas Tirith will make sure that all we have settled on is seen to. Have faith that this winter gives way to spring and new life very soon."

He could not have put it clearer. The gathered men looked around the room as if they had at long last awakened from a deep trance.

"Rest assured you still," Faramir glanced over at Aragorn who gave a curt nod, "remain our guests while this weather persists." With that, he began gathering up the vast amounts of documents.

It may have been somewhat harshly done, but Aragorn was so thankful he did not care.

As his guests began filing out, he ungracefully stood. Bringing with him his burden, Faramir came over to him.

"I need to return these to the library," he said. "I do not like to ask, but can you manage on your own?" There was a hint of concern in his face.

"I will take it slow," Aragorn told him. He would have preferred it if he had his Steward's arm to lean on, but he was not altogether helpless.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, go! See you at dinner?"

"Dinner," Faramir agreed. "Be careful."

"Always." He smiled. "Dinner then. And afterwards?"

A sly smile spread across the face before him. "Definitely afterwards."

"Good, off you are then!" He made a shooing gesture with his hand and watched Faramir disappear through the door.

He left the council hall himself in the slow pace he had promised. The many hours spent sitting down had taken their toll on his back, and after only a short while he had to stop for a rest.

He stood near one of the doors that lead to the gardens, leaning against a windowsill and looking out on the snow that covered the grounds completely. The bushes and shrubs looked like giant snowballs, almost no twigs visible.

Snow.

Was it possible he had stayed indoors for so long he even missed the snow on his face?

He knew he was not dressed for it, but he only meant to breathe some of the outside air. The door proved difficult to open, but after some persuasion it creaked open and a fresh wind met his cheeks.

Aragorn closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Freezing air filled his lungs and he felt an urge to laugh. Despite the cold, there were traces of life and energy in this wind – some notion of the world that lay beyond these confining walls.

He was so focused on this new feeling that he did not hear the footfall behind him. Therefore, the hard blow that struck the back of his head, took him by complete surprise. Before he could react, he lost himself to darkness.

**tbc**


	14. Missing

**Let's have another change of perspective - this is from Faramir's POV.**

**Also, I'm pleased to note that you were thrown into the deepest, darkest depths of despair as you read the ending of the previous chapter. Now: angst.**

**Chapter 14 – Missing**

Faramir spent the rest of the afternoon in the library. After he returned the scrolls and documents to their proper places, he picked up a book and settled down near the fire. He was a reader and incapable of denying it.

There was little to do for him other than that, he figured. The City itself was continuously seen to, no recent reports had reached them from the surrounding lands and therefore, he decided, he was entitled to some time of his own.

Soon though, his mind strayed and his thoughts turned to Aragorn. The King had looked so tired during council but hopefully he was resting, or even sleeping soundly, in his chambers by now, and that was another reason for why Faramir stayed where he was. He deemed his lover's – still it felt strange to call him so, strange but wonderful – slumber would be more restful without another person in his bed to disturb him.

Chasing away the sting of loneliness that hit him at that thought, Faramir slid down lower in his armchair; he hoped there would be plenty of time to make up for a lonely afternoon later.

He had not been reading for long but already the written words blurred before him and he yawned. Maybe it was not only Aragorn who needed some sleep? With a smile, he closed his eyes.

-oooo-

Several hours later he awoke, with the signs of a headache coming on and to a library that lay in a gloomy darkness. The dim twilight filtered through the thick masses of snow that were now cast down from the skies and brutally hurled towards the windows. Cool air crept lazily about the room, slicing through the layers of clothes he wore, and seeping through to his skin.

Shivering he stood and replaced the book on its shelf. On another day it might have interested him – now was not the season for growing crops anyhow – another day and another time of day. Night, even evening, coming early during winter, would not tell him the hour but he judged it was much later than he would have wished.

It was only his promise to Aragorn that made him head towards the dining hall. Wincing as the pounding in his head did not cease, he heartily wished he could forget about eating and replace it with a long, warm bath. However, he had told Aragorn he would join him – providing it was not already past suppertime and everyone had left already.

His heart sank as he walked; he had slept too long, which in the first place was not acceptable for a Steward, and now Aragorn had been forced to entertain his guests by himself. Some of the old worries mercilessly surfaced; the insecurities he believed had been eternally buried, stirred ominously. His headache did not go away.

Upon arriving in the dining hall he realised it was indeed dinnertime, but not too late. The chatter of mingled voices floated around him as he entered; the wood-fires were sizzling contentedly in their places and several torches were lit and hung on the walls. The room was warm and welcoming, and through it drifted a rich aroma of spices.

Faramir looked over to the table and a pair of shining eyes immediately locked with his, and he was offered a beaming smile.

He smiled back, automatically. His eyes darted over the table, taking in the eating and drinking men.

"We thought you had abandoned us, Faramir!"

He continued to smile – they both did – since it seemed there was nothing else to do.

"Come, sit here!"

A hand pulled out a chair and Faramir nodded absentmindedly. The persistent hammering behind his eyes would not abate. He slid down into the chair, and was rewarded with an even broader smile.

"Good. It is far too long since we had time to speak to one another."

Faramir turned to look properly at the man beside him. The Steward could not decide if the flames were more radiant than the smile, or if it was the other way around. All the colours and flickering lights annoyed his already sensitive eyes. Deren's blond hair caught the glow of the candles on the table.

He felt his mind retreat from its duties, and the thinking process slowed down. Once more he looked around the table which was laden with food and wine and gleaming cutlery. The men were laughing and debating, their animated body language letting him know they had been drinking for some time. Everyone seemed drawn into their respective discussions; there was no sign of Aragorn.

"Will you have some wine?" Deren asked even as he poured a glass.

Faramir accepted. He had never thought of alcohol as a remedy for headaches, but he did not care. Aragorn was missing, and he had no idea what to believe.

His first instinct was to become worried, his second was to quench his first. After all, Aragorn was a grown man and he did not need Faramir to check on him constantly. Had the King not, at several occasions, told him he was fine and could make it on his own? Sure, he was grateful for the support Faramir could give, but he was not reliant on him. And why should he be? Aragorn had fought in many battles, he was strong-willed and very independent.

Also, they had spent a lot of time together in the past days, and maybe this was his way of showing his Steward just how independent he was?

_But he said he would see you at dinner..._

Faramir almost laughed at the small voice in his mind. A bitter laugh it would have been. Yes, he had said so – requested, even – but then, people said a lot of things they did not mean.

He marvelled at the ease with which his resentment arose. Closely following it, was disappointment, which brought with it a painful sinking feeling that haunted his stomach.

He drank.

Despair appeared on the scene.

He stared at Aragorn's empty chair.

Rejection.

Of course. He really should not be surprised.

"Faramir, are you alright?"

Numbly he turned to look at Deren who was watching him with a worried expression.

"Yes, all is well," he lied. "Headache." He tried a smile. It turned out very weak.

Deren visibly relaxed. He too glanced over at Aragorn's vacant seat, but if he had any opinions on the matter, he kept them to himself. Faramir was thankful, for if the Steward himself could not explain their King's absence, who could? It would look bad indeed. And furthermore, he did not want to speak of it to anyone – not while his feelings were warring inside.

"Then perhaps you ought not to drink?" the younger man asked him, full of concern.

"I need the drink, to be sure," Faramir muttered.

His words brought forth a new smile from Deren's lips. "To… to this night then!" he said, raising his glass a little.

_Some night._

"This night," Faramir echoed, hearing himself the lack of spirit in his voice.

He spoke to no one else, and since no one else spoke to him he was content. Deren did not press him, but let him sit drinking in silence.

After his second glass, he was beginning to welcome the relentless pounding in his head. He imagined it helped turn his thoughts away from Aragorn.

The servants came in and cleared the table, leaving only the wine and glasses. Faramir had not eaten anything but he saw no point in it – an empty stomach meant the alcohol would have a greater affect on him and that was all he wanted. He was no drinker, but tonight was different.

_Some night indeed._

The snowy winds were battering the windows and he was happy to be inside. Only a fool would venture outdoors in this weather, he mused. If he concentrated really hard, he could almost conjure the sensation of the bitter cold that raged outside… or maybe all he felt was plain bitterness.

Where had it gone wrong? What had he done? When he had last seen Aragorn – after the council – all _had_ been well. If the King had not wished to see him tonight, why had he asked in the first place?

Memories of their last conversation slipped into his mind, and between the poundings, he could clearly recall Aragorn ask him about dinner…

"_And afterwards?"_

"_Definitely afterwards."_

Smiles and promises. So much for smiles and promises! So much for words of love...

Faramir drank down the rest of his wine in one swift movement.

So much for not thinking about Aragorn.

A small part of his mind argued that he saw things in a rawer light than he ought to, but he argued back, telling his own mind that he had proof enough before him. If Aragorn was not by his side, well, then he probably had other, more interesting engagements. After all, Faramir knew how much Aragorn disliked entertaining these particular guests, and since all discussions regarding the infrastructure were now ended, maybe he had decided to leave them, along with his unwanted Steward, alone.

_Maybe he was just really tired and still sleeping?_

Faramir dismissed the idea. He knew rejection when he saw it. The Gods – if there were any – knew he had struggled for years to be accepted. This was his curse – face it and live with it.

With that, he shut down his mind, not even bothering to scold himself for debating with his own thoughts.

_Live with it._

He reached for the pitcher and poured another glass of wine.

-oooo-

It was much later that the party rose from their seats and, bid each other a good night, and began making their way back to their rooms.

Faramir stood as well, seeing the walls swim before him and feeling the floor sway beneath his feet. He barely noticed when Deren took his arm and dragged him towards the doorway.

"Shall we walk together?"

Faramir nodded. It seemed a good thing to do. If Deren was less drunk he might be able to steer them in the right direction. Faramir vaguely recalled that the blond man had been given a room not too far from his own.

As they exited the dining hall, Faramir caught sight of one of the servants he knew sometimes was called upon by Aragorn. If he remembered correctly, she was one of the two women who had been waiting upon them in the small antechamber the previous night. This was his last chance, and he seized it.

With Deren at his side, he beckoned her over.

"Have you seen the King?" he blurted out, trying to fix his eyes on hers.

A slight frown passed over her face. "No, sir, I have not," she said.

Faramir swallowed, hundreds of confused thoughts flashed through his newly awakened mind.

"I have not seen the King," she hurriedly continued, "I have spoken to him though."

"You have spoken to him?"

Deren shifted by his side.

"Yes, but only through his door. I came to the King's rooms to summon him for dinner, but he called to me that he would not eat and would not be disturbed."

Faramir absorbed the words slowly. "Anything else?"

She hesitated, he could see that. "Yes," she said finally, "he would not be disturbed – under any circumstances." She gave a quick bow and left the two men by the door.

The world stopped turning for a moment. Then it resumed its spinning. Faster and faster it spun, until Faramir was sure he would be cast out into the universe with nothing to hold on to, and no one to pull him back.

Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Deren's arm and the younger man willingly supported him. All the colours from before merged before him in a terrible firework, which soon gave way to a despised blackness. He clang to Deren, desperately trying to stay on his feet as the floor shook and disappeared under his feet.

It was Deren's voice that eventually steadied him:

"Let us go."

There was an unbearable ringing in his ears, but at least he could walk. He followed without blinking as Deren pulled him out into the corridor and away from the dining hall. His mind was completely blank as he gradually integrated what he had been told.

No, Aragorn did not want to see him. He was not wanted. He was, and he would always be, alone.

They stopped somewhere, outside some door in some corridor. Deren stood to face him, placing a hand on each of his shoulders to steady him again.

"Faramir?"

Damn, the hammering in his head was nearly overwhelming him; the image of Deren's face was hazy. He made an effort.

"Yes?"

"Forget him."

Frowning, Faramir tried to understand. "What?"

"Forget the King, forget Aragorn. He does not deserve you."

"Aragorn…"

Aragorn had forsaken him.

"Yes, he does not deserve you," Deren pressed.

Faramir writhed uncomfortably in his grip. The other man was wrong, he knew. This was how things were meant to be – it had nothing to do with Aragorn really. Faramir was simply not worth it… him… his time… whatever. He was not good enough, had not his father told him so, over and over and over again? Denethor may be dead, but that did not mean he had not been right while he lived.

"Forget him." Deren's voice was calmer now, gentler. It soothed the pain, made him feel taken care of.

A hand ghosted over his cheek and he leaned into the touch. He was so tired! His already muddled vision blurred even more and uncontrolled tears left a shimmering trail on his skin. The hand carefully wiped them away.

"Sssch…" the soft voice enfolded him in a warm embrace, "there now…"

An arm brought him closer to the body with the voice. It felt secure and he calmed down a little. Now a hand was stroking his hair and he recognised the sensation. He felt loved and he desperately needed to be loved.

"You should not be alone tonight," the voice murmured.

He did not know - he knew nothing. Only that it was comforting to stay in the embrace.

"I…" he began, but was tenderly interrupted.

"No, not alone. Stay in here, in this room."

Faramir lifted his head and saw the door. It looked like any other door he knew, save for one, but that door was no longer open to him.

"Yes, this door," he agreed, letting his head fall back on the shoulder upon which it had been resting.

"This door," the voice confirmed.

He was led inside the darkened room and wordlessly urged to lie down on the bed. Gratefully he sank back, feeling the world finally settling down around him. He closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. The door clicked and footsteps approached. After some hustle, the bed dipped as someone joined him.

He felt empty and lost, succumbing to the night. He had been falling and flying, whirling and spiralling for hours, and now he was exhausted. A sorrow he did not understand welled up inside and filled him mercilessly where he lay.

Finally, it was with a sense of gratitude he accepted the arm that snaked around his waist and pulled him close. He deserved nothing, he understood as his senses tangled and lost themselves to the great void which threatened to swallow him.

"Aragorn," he whispered before giving in to the darkness.

**tbc**


	15. Uncovering

**For once, I have not much to say. Here we are. **

**Chapter 15 - Uncovering**

Pain assaulted him the moment he woke up – pain and that feeling of hopelessness he had never wanted to experience ever again. It was clear the Universe had decided to take no pity on him.

The curtains were not drawn so he could easily see how the night had grown old and the westering moon had slipped far down the darkened heavens. Other than that, there was only shadow.

Deren's soft breathing sifted through the air but did not manage to lull him back to sleep. For a long time he lay still, vaguely wondering how it all had happened, and why. Not that he really believed that it mattered. People changed their minds every day, the world was never a loving place for any lasting time, not for him anyway.

He remembered with a twitch in his heart the songs he had heard as a child, and the songs he had heard the Mirkwood-Elf Legolas sing. Different those songs were but all carried the same message of everlasting love. Songs of fair maidens and fair lords, brave warriors, strong ladies… all of them claimed by a love that seemed to run deeper – and higher – than life itself. Once or twice he had even overheard Aragorn singing… In a mellow voice which had carried straight to his heart. He had never told the King of course, and for that he was grateful now. Such love was not for him.

Dismissing even his headache, he cautiously sat up and then got out of the bed. Despite everything, he could not stay. Deren stirred in his sleep but did not wake.

Leaving was a simple business. Since Faramir had not shed any clothes he only had to walk across the floor to the door, open it, step out into the hallway and close the same door behind him. Still he could sense the weight of Deren's arm around his waist and the sound of his breathing rose and sank in his ears, rendering him uncomfortable inside his own body.

All the torches in the corridor were extinguished but through the windows filtered the wintry moonlight. Long, pale streaks of light seemed to hold the floor their captive, freezing time itself, as Faramir walked slowly towards his own room.

_On the outside of time…_

Was that not where he – they – had been during the past few, precious days? Maybe he had actually been inside one of those songs for a little while, too engrossed to know it. But now the last note was sung, the music had faded and reality held him in its firm and non-compromising grip again. One day, those days could be a fond memory… perhaps… if everything stopped hurting.

He had a long way left to go, he realised, when he pushed his door open and spotted a dark mound of heavy fabric carefully folded and placed over the back of a chair. Almost reverently Faramir approached it and, swallowing, he placed a hand upon his winter coat.

"_Your coat is probably back in your room, washed and dry."_

_Pang._

Aragorn.

_"Why yes it is! __It is here. You were right. It is right here…"_

In his mind, the scene played out before him...

"_I told you so."_

_The King was advancing towards him, a smile on his lips, a smile in his eyes._

_Faramir picked up the coat and examined it, pretended to be lost in his discovery. _

"_Clean and dry," he confirmed._

_Aragorn stood before him now and gently took the coat from his hands. He replaced it on the chair._

"_You do not need it at present," he said softly._

_Faramir raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"_

_The smile on his lover's lips grew and turned a bit devilish. "Because I can think of many a reason for why you would want to stay indoors."_

"_Yes," Faramir nodded, fighting a grin. "It is very late – or early if you wish – after all."_

"_True, very true…" _

_Aragorn's eyes roamed over his face and settled on his mouth._

"_Anyone sane enough would be in bed by now," the King said, his voice taking on a husky note._

"_Alas, I only have a Steward's bed to offer," Faramir shrugged in mock despair. _

"_As long as it is this particular Steward's bed, I shall need no other – ever," Aragorn assured him and seized his lips in a soul-searing kiss. _

He opened his eyes, not even knowing he had closed them. The room was cold and silent. Before him lay the coat, a deadweight on his heart and memories.

Sighing he lifted it up pulled it on. He had no idea whether Aragorn had ever even seen it, let alone touched it, and yet it seemed to him that a part of the King was nestled somewhere among the threads.

Clad in this armour, this shield against the powerful cold, he exited his room and returned to the corridor. His headache had diminished and he was practically drained, but he would not sleep. Not yet.

Fighting time, fighting the oncoming morning when daylight would roll in over the City and bring him face to face with his former lover, Faramir wandered aimlessly through the hallways. He kept his mind in check as he walked in the dead-silence that enwrapped him. Allowing no memories to surface, he passed by the dining hall and the library several times. He was halfway down to the kitchens before he turned back and wound his way back towards the council hall. The heavy doors were firmly closed and probably locked. He stopped in front of them and then turned on his heel like a soldier on patrol, and began walking away from them.

Further down the hallway, he came to a rest in front of a row of windows overlooking the gardens.

"_Anyone sane enough would be in bed by now."_

It was certainly not considered sane pacing the palace at this time of night dressed in a winter coat, he observed. But for the life of him, Faramir could not work up sufficient energy to care.

The garden was drenched in snow: trees, bushes and shrubberies were difficult to tell apart. Squinting in the faint light provided, Faramir leaned closer to the window-glass. Despite the snowfall earlier, he could discern footprints leading out into the gardens from – he squinted – from that door a few feet away from him.

It was not as odd as it might seem. The palace of Minas Tirith obviously had servants who were employed to take care of things, be it the coldest winter in living memory or not.

Still, there was something unsettling about them that he could not define. Drawing his coat tighter about him, Faramir walked over to the door and pushed at it. It was not supposed to be unlocked, but it was. However, opening it wider proved nearly impossible as masses of snow had collected on the ground outside.

Suddenly inspired, he welcomed this new task which was something completely different from dwelling upon his own miserable life. He pressed and heaved, used the door as a shovel to push away the snow, and was finally able to force it open.

An icy cold wind attacked his face and his eyes watered in an instant. He welcomed this also, stepping outside into the waning night.

The footprints were easier to see than to follow; with every step his light boots sank down quite a few inches and soon his feet were both wet and cold. It helped though that another track had been made. It was almost as if something had been dragged across the snow, and so had whisked away some of it.

He pressed on, battered by the winds that blew up from the north. Low down in the east, a pale greenish-yellow light tainted the sky. He was on the very edge of morning, but this was his quest now and he would not stop.

But then the footprints did so.

Faramir found himself standing in front of a row of high bushes laden with snow. He could go no further and disappointment washed over him. Supposedly the servants had had some errand here but what that might be, he had no idea.

He was about to turn back when he spotted something tucked underneath one of the larger bushes. The snow looked like it had been disturbed, piled up, removed and then piled up again. To Faramir it looked like someone had tried to bury something.

He frowned and took another step, coming just a bit closer. Bending over, he began to brush the snow away. Soon he uncovered some fabric. He tried to unearth it but found only more... and more. Gripped by some incomprehensible necessity to reveal whatever this was, he frantically cleared away what felt like tons of snow.

With numb fingers, Faramir dug, panic hovering at the edge of his senses. There was something beneath the fabric, something that was not soft or possible to remove. He ignored the twigs that rasped his face as he dove underneath the branches of the bushes.

Somewhat shielded from falling snow, the ground beneath the shrubbery was at least less sunken beneath the white blanket. Faramir had not much room to move, but he did not care. His arms and hands pushed and shoved away the snow until he knew nothing else but this task.

Closer to the stem the ground was almost bare. Faramir crept forward and when he beheld what lay before him, he did something he was not known to do: he screamed.

-oooo-

His scream reverberated in the yard. It rang between the walls of the former Citadel and it forcefully hit the windows on every level.

Then all went silent.

In the moments that followed, Faramir absurdly reflected that the vision was almost beautiful: a gentle sprinkle of snow covered the colourless skin and the first light of dawn accentuated the high cheekbones and the soft curve of the full lips. The eyes were closed, and the dark lashes contrasted gracefully against the surrounding whiteness. He lay in peace, in the snow, underneath the sleeping branches of the bushes.

But this was wrong, so wrong, Faramir knew. And he screamed again, screamed for Aragorn.

-oooo-

He was being dragged away against his own will, by someone who was stronger than he. The place had erupted with activity, people were swarming about him and now he was pushed and pulled to the door and forced inside where it was warm and safe. Or so they tried to tell him.

He strained to see what was happening but there were guards and servants and healers in the way. The clamour thrashed his senses and the suddenly lit torches, too many to count, pierced his eyes with their blinding blazes.

Fighting against his restraints, he struggled to get back outside. He had to know what was happening to Aragorn, that he would be alright.

Strong and determined arms held him back. Words he did not care to understand swam around him and urged him to fight even harder. He only stopped when a desperate slap across his face temporarily set stars dancing in front of his eyes.

Staggering backwards he finally sagged to the floor, shaking and trembling. If Aragorn was not okay, what would he do then?

A memory of a night, so long ago it seemed now, brutally surfaced:

_They had eaten the apples and were sitting in front of the fire. Faramir had not been so nervous in a very long time. The great royal bed stood only some feet away but they had still not breached the subject. _

_Aragorn looked kingly where he sat, the warm light of the flames played upon his skin. Faramir only breathed because he had to, not because he really dared._

_Then the King had leaned forward and touched his hand. Aragorn spoke gently, telling his Steward that he needed to lie down._

"_I am an old man, remember?"_

Fear welled up inside Faramir where he sat now. Aragorn was not an old man! He was young and strong and he was fine! He must be fine.

Fear mingled with nausea and he fought the urge to throw up.

Aragorn was not old.

Movement at the door caught his attention. People were rushing through and then stepped back to make way for the healers. Faramir shot to his feet so fast that blackness momentarily overcame him. When his vision cleared, he spotted the healers passing through the door.

They were walking very slowly. To Faramir's eyes they hardly moved. Everything slowed down around him and even the constant shouting seemed to cease.

He watched anxiously as they carried him inside.

He lay on a stretcher, and he was as pale as the first hour of the day.

He was covered with a thick fur but his body's contours were still discernible. His legs were placed in an odd angle.

Faramir turned away and vomited.

One of the healers hurried to his side and held him as the violent tremors shook his body. The noise mounted once more and everything sprung back to life.

When Faramir finally looked up he met the searching gaze of the blond healer who had come to their aid some nights before. Haggard and exhausted, the healer opened his mouth to speak.

"The King lives."

Faramir simply watched him, the words only just registering. Then he fell back to the floor, only avoiding the mess he had made because of the healer's hands steering him away from it. He was crying, shaking and falling.

The healer knelt in front of him and shook his shoulders.

"Listen," he urged. "The King lives but he has been outside in the snow for a long time…."

Faramir registered these words as well, somewhere in his mind.

"Also, his legs have been severely hurt. Exactly how, I know not at this point."

Faramir nodded, devoid of every normal feeling. A sensation of emptiness and blankness was spreading through him.

"I must go to him immediately," the healer continued, "you may come with me."

And so it was that Aragorn's Steward rose to his feet once more that night. As the glow of morning painted the sky in a golden hue and chased the moon away to its slumber, he followed the healer to where all would come to an end, if there were no gods in this world.

**tbc**


	16. Watching

**Chapter 16 - Watching**

Why do we not let go? Simply let go. Why do we not let our fingertips slide off the edge, gently one by one, fall from the frail structure that upholds us, that is life? Is it hope and faith? Are we filled with hope – hopeful – that, as they say, 'this too shall pass' and we may step out into a new world that promises to carry us to blissful completion? Are we filled with faith? Trusting whatever powers, or people, we fancy to bring us through the hard times?

But what is it to be faithful? If faithfulness exists only in our relationships with other beings, be they human or not, what do we do when we are – alone?

_Can you hear me?_

His eyes were closed.

Faramir fell back in the chair they had provided for him. He sat by his side and watched. He registered every rise and fall of Aragorn's chest and he fought to stay awake, the lack of sleep becoming more and more evident as time passed.

They had forced him to change clothes, getting rid of his soaked boots and leggings, and replacing them with dry ones. They had made him drink some soup, so hot it had burnt his insides to ashes. His coughing and watering eyes were the first reactions not directly related to Aragorn's condition they had gotten out of him. But by now, his world had narrowed down once more to include only the King or anyone who might give him information on his state.

Initially, Faramir had wanted to set the room afire to warm Aragorn's frozen body, but the healer who had brought him here had gently, but firmly, explained to him that that was not how things worked. One small fire was meticulously tended to and kept the temperature in the room on a level no higher than one's average body temperature. Faramir was not convinced, but there really was nothing he could do.

Outside, the nimble fingers of dawn toyed with the sky in the east, painting bright red streaks across the horizon, and randomly underlining them with a rosy tint. A few yawning stars were still showing in the western sky, but they were eager to dim into the light of day, finding some sleep after the long night.

As the light of dawn drew closer to Minas Tirith, the minutes dragged on, turning into half-hours, becoming complete hours. Faramir watched. As the deathly white shade that held Aragorn's skin ever so slowly gave way, angry red patches appeared on his cheeks, his forehead and even his ears. Faramir wanted nothing more than to stroke them away with a careful hand, but he was firmly told not to touch. He complied.

Sometime later, the healer Faramir had begun to recognise as a genuinely caring person entered the room and walked over to where Aragorn was lying on the bed. After a long, searching glance at Faramir – probably to make sure was behaving or had not passed out – he carefully lifted the covers concealing the King's body and looked underneath.

From his place opposite him, Faramir could not see what he was doing but the healer appeared sufficiently pleased at what he saw – at least there was no new frown on his face. The Steward observed him intently, not sure what to expect or dread. He knew nothing at all and it ate away at him, little by little. Silence hung heavily in the air around them.

The healer replaced the blankets, circled the bed and pulled up a chair next to Faramir. Fixing the Steward with a firm gaze, he began speaking.

"The King suffers as you can plainly see from his exposure to the cold, although it is not as serious as I first feared. The cold clawed at his skin cruelly, as you can see, but with some luck it will heal properly and leave no more than a few faint scars." He paused, checking that Faramir understood his words.

The Steward nodded.

"Eventually, as he regains his regular body temperature he should wake up. The process cannot, indeed _must not_, be rushed." These words he emphasised strongly, drawing another nod from Faramir.

"This process is not a pretty one," the healer warned him. "Blood will once more begin to flow freely in his veins but it brings with it great pain. Once we are sure he will be fine, though, we can give him something to ease it with."

Faramir nodded, and nodded.

"Now, as for his legs… It seems to me that the damage they have been exposed to was..." another pause, a longer one, "...intentional."

He stopped nodding. Fighting for words, he only succeeded at repeating what he had heard. "Intentional?"

There was now a grave look on the healer's face and it was he who inclined his head this time. "Yes, so it seems. I would say, from what I have seen, that the King was dragged across the snow, most likely so by someone who held him by his ankles. There is also an angry mark on the back of his head, suggesting he did not willingly venture outside."

Faramir felt sick. This time, however, it blended with anger. Staggering to his feet, he did not know where to turn. "Someone tried to kill him!" he cried out, intending it as a question but, suspecting he already knew the answer, it came out as more of a statement.

The healer held up a hand, meaning to calm him down. "This is merely my opinion. We will know more when the King awakens."

Faramir slumped back into the chair, his mind reeling. Who would want to hurt their King, much less see him dead? The War was over, no new threat had arisen… The Orcs were almost all gathered up. Saruman dead. Sauron defeated. This was a time of peace and budding prosperity.

Besides, the weather surely made it impossible for anyone to even enter the City – the palace? What had happened? The King was well guarded, even though security had been somewhat relaxed as peace reigned.

There, he was back where he started.

Waiting. This constant, hateful waiting was the key to solving this dreadful mystery.

He turned his eyes to Aragorn. A little more colour had returned to his skin but he showed no signs of waking yet. With a long sigh, Faramir forced himself to calm down as he was obviously wished to do.

Then he realised what the healer had not told him. His heart sank in his chest.

"How much damage has been done to his legs?" The question came out as a whisper.

"Truthfully, I do not know. We must wait and see."

So waited they did.

-oooo-

The light of dawn had not been expecting anything in particular as it climbed the towers of the White City. Mostly it had been contemplating the oncoming spring, making plans for what to do, and who to wake up in which way as the days grew longer. Not that much had happened yet, but there were rumours in the south of warmer winds. The light of dawn danced around excitedly at this as it went in search for the King.

He was not in his chambers, his bed stood undisturbed. The light of dawn peered inside but saw no sign of him. Throwing in the necessary amount of brightness through the window-glass, the light sped towards the Steward's bedroom. It smiled to itself at this turn of events, but figured that Men appreciated some variety.

Utterly confused, the light regarded the empty and equally untouched bed. This was very strange. It illuminated the room swiftly and continued the search for the two lovers.

It took some time until it found them and what it saw then, shook every glint and sparkle in the sky. The light of dawn stared, horrified, down upon the two humans. The King, its beloved King, lay sleeping in a bed in the healing quarters looking as pale as the snow piled up on the streets below. The Steward had collapsed beside him, seated in a chair, but with his head resting on the bed, close to where Aragorn's hip must be, but not touching.

Breaking free from the temporary numbness that held it, the light of dawn did two things. First, it gently slipped inside, enveloping the men in a warm embrace, making the air shimmer about them. Then, it made a promise to deal severely with whoever had hurt its King and his lover.

-oooo-

A weak mumbling woke Faramir from his sleep. The day had progressed and the room was now bathing in a wintry sunshine. The fire was still burning but the healers had all left them for now.

Connecting the sound to the situation, Faramir turned so quickly to Aragorn that his head spun. Watching his lover's eyelids flutter, he held his breath, silently praying to every god and goddess he had ever heard of.

Thousands of years passed and then slowly, slowly Aragorn opened his eyes. Adjusting to the strong light around him, he blinked. Then a ripple crossed his features and with a pained groan and a sharp intake of breath, he thrust them shut once more. His chest heaved and sweat collected on his forehead.

Faramir called out, knowing not which words he chose, only needing someone to come to them.

When the healers stopped swarming around them, Aragorn seemed more at ease despite his still heavy breathing. Faramir had unceremoniously been pushed aside but now he approached the bed once more.

"Aragorn," he whispered.

A new wave of life passed over the King's face, but this time it was not accompanied by a stab of pain.

"Aragorn?" Hardly daring to hope, he stood as close to the bed he could without disturbing it.

How could he explain the joy that washed over him as the faintest of smiles ghosted across his lover's lips?

"I cannot touch you," he began, for some reason needing to explain why he had not already thrown himself at the King, "but I am here…"

The smile deepened ever so lightly. A movement drew Faramir's attention and with what must have been an enormous effort, Aragorn slid his hand out from underneath the covers. The skin was tinted with flaming red. Feeling tears well up in his eyes, Faramir shook his head blindly.

"I cannot touch you," he said in a voice threatening to break, "they will not allow it." He lifted the blankets and hid the hand once more.

"But I am here."

Blinking through his tears he saw the smile weaken but to his relief it did not disappear completely.

-oooo-

It was mid-afternoon. Aragorn had spent the last hours in a fitful sleep, unmoving but for recurrent tremors shaking his body. Now, the shaking gradually subsided and he once more began to surface. His head fell to the side and a slight frown crossed and settled on his brow. Lips that had regained almost their full colour seemed to begin forming a word, but failed and stilled.

Faramir watched all of this, just as he had seen every tremor and heard every breath his lover had drawn since he drifted back to sleep. Faramir leaned forward in his chair and fighting the urge to brush away a dark strand of hair from Aragorn's temple he called out softly, "Welcome back."

The frown faded away and left the man's features calm and peaceful.

"I still cannot touch you," Faramir whispered regretfully, frustration lacing his voice.

Aragorn's lips moved again and this time he managed a hoarse sound.

"No," said Faramir, "speak not."

But the older man was persistent and as his Steward patiently waited, the King managed the first words he had spoken since last night.

They were barely distinguishable, nearly swallowed by breathing and there were only two of them, but to Faramir they were everything.

"Love you."

With tears yet again streaming down his face, Faramir desperately wished he could crawl into the bed and feel Aragorn's arms around him, holding him securely. Or it would be he who held the King. He wished for a face free to touch, free to kiss and caress. He wished for a body to mould perfectly against. He wished for words to be spoken, looks exchanged and breaths to mingle.

Instead he remained in his seat, furiously brushing away the wet streaks form his cheeks.

"I love you too, Aragorn." He choked out the words. "I love you so much! When I found you, I thought.. When I found you... Gods… I found you."

Unable to fight the emotions, he broke down and cried as he had not done for many years. His hands lifted, they hovered above his lover's hair as if he somehow might be able to feel it anyway.

"Do not leave," he whispered, "do not leave me, Aragorn."

That was when he saw it: the tear that slid down the King's reddened cheek from behind his closed eyelids, leaving a glistening trail behind.

He wanted to kiss it away, wanted frantically to touch anything – any part of Aragorn that was allowed. There was none.

A movement in the doorway caused him to look up. Rubbing his face with the back of his hand, the young man saw the healer standing in the doorway, holding up a pillow. Faramir was too exhausted to care about what he might have heard or seen. Upon crossing the room, the healer silently handed Faramir the light burden and then, while murmuring to Aragorn, he carefully pulled his pillow further away from the Steward, making room on the bed for one more head.

Gratefully, Faramir placed his own pillow beside Aragorn's and while he was still seated he could at least face his lover. He pushed his chair closer and angled it as best he could.

"I must ask you not to touch him." The healer repeated softly, his eyes compassionate.

After seeing to the fire, he left the room with a small, kind smile.

Faramir placed his head on the pillow. It was not too comfortable, but his body had no say in this. His heart was the supreme judge.

Aragorn's eyes were still closed but there were no more tears.

"I…" Faramir began, wanting to say so much, but not knowing where to begin.

Raspy words then slipped past Aragorn's lips:

"Not leaving."

And somehow that was all that was needed to be said.

As the King slipped back to sleep, Faramir sat watching.

**tbc**


	17. Deciding

**Thank you for waiting patiently! Here is the next chapter. Many of you would like to see some happiness. Will there be some? Read on!**

**Chapter 17**

Evening came and melted into night. Somewhere along the line, Faramir lost track of the hours, slipping in and out of sleep, still seated but with his head on the bed. He was vaguely aware of his aching back but pushed the sensation aside repeatedly. As the deeper and darker midnight approached, he gave up and pulled back his head, trying to find a more comfortable position in his chair.

The room lay in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of the embers in the fire-place, but filled with the steady rhythm of Aragorn's breathing. This was the only thing that kept Faramir from seeking out his own bed: the fact that the King was breathing, that he was here and alive. Faramir was not going to leave for anything. Ignoring his body's complaints, he drifted back into a shallow slumber.

Night waxed and waned, and finally recoiled as a greenish-yellow dawn grew in the east. The palace awoke gradually; small movements spread throughout the chambers and corridors. The first _clank _of a pot on the stove in the downstairs-kitchens mingled with the _screech_ of an unwilling window on the second floor opening to let in some fresh air.

Faramir tossed and turned in his seat's confining space, knowing even before he woke up properly that he would have a sore back and stiff legs. Blinking in the morning light that managed to penetrate the drawn curtains, he felt in no way refreshed. He rubbed a hand over his face and tugged at the collar of his shirt. None of these actions particularly helped to revive him.

He had been standing by the fire-place dwelling on nothing and everything for a while when a violent coughing shook the stillness. Aragorn had been sleeping peacefully for the past half-hour but now he was shaking in his bed, fighting to bring his arms up from underneath the blankets to cover his face. Raspy, dry noises erupted all around them as the King struggled for air. Rushing to his side, Faramir threw away every word of caution the healer had sent his way, and he grabbed Aragorn by the shoulders to hold him upright as he coughed like what seemed to be his lungs out.

Soothing words neither of them paid heed to escaped Faraimr's lips as alarm hit him hard and seized his heart with ice-cold claws. Every breath Aragorn drew was aggressively beaten down by his own body, forcing the air out of him as soon as it had entered. No one came to their aid.

The King was shaking in his arms, sweat collecting on his brow, eyes wide with pain. He was clutching at Faramir, forcing him to stay when the Steward would have run for help. It was when the coughing finally died down, that he realized he could have called out.

Exhausted and yet in agitation, Aragorn sank back on the bed, still firmly gripping Faramir's arms and hands.

"I will get help, Aragorn… Lie down, there… easy… I will get help. Wait… lie down…"

The King refused to let him go, shaking his head and still staring widely.

"Please, let me go, Aragorn…" Faramir tried to break free from the vice-like embrace but without success. "You need help, please… love?" He tried that last word, so foreign on his tongue despite what had been said amongst tears yesterday.

Aragorn caught his eyes and fixed them with a stormy stare. A whirlwind of mingled sensations, pain and release, fear and relief, could be sighted in them. Faramir leaned down closer.

"Love?" he said again. "Please?"

The grip loosened a little and Aragorn's breathing evened out slightly. Determinedly Faramir pulled one hand free and brought it to the dark tangled tresses. Slowly he began stroking them, soothing once more. As a sort of compromise, he let the King hold on to his other arm tightly.

"There…" he whispered, "sshh… all is well now… there…"

He stroked and stroked, let Aragorn breathe and calm down. Let himself breathe and calm down.

"Love…" he said softly. A small smile appeared on the older man's lips.

"Love," he repeated, watching the smile deepen. "Love, love, love" he chanted as if he tried the word out, all the time seeing that beautiful smile grow.

"I wish I could kiss you," he whispered, feeling a blush steal over his face and so he looked away.

The hold on his arm loosened even more and then he felt a hand tenderly stroking him instead. A thumb traced small circles on his cloth-covered arm, comforting him now. Raising his eyes to Aragorn's face he saw that the man was finally relaxed and the frantic look gradually replaced by the first signs of an inner stillness.

"Missed you," Faramir said with colour still tinting his cheeks.

His King abandoned the movements and carefully brought his hand to his mouth. He placed a soft kiss on his own fingers, and then slowly lifting them to Faramir's lips, he spread the kiss upon the sensitive skin.

Gingerly Faramir accepted his gift, hardly daring to move beneath the touch but all the while gazing into the eyes of the man he loved.

And who loved him.

He saw that now, and wondered why his heart had not truly seen it before.

His love's hand fell back onto the covers and for a while they sat and lay in silence watching the brightness of day weave patterns of light on the walls, taking advantage of every crack between the curtains it could find.

"Do you know who did this to you?" Faramir said at last. He was beginning to come back to life as he felt the first, rather commanding, pangs of hunger pound his empty stomach.

Aragorn shook his head.

"I guessed as much," Faramir sighed. "For you did not go into the gardens by choice?"

The face his lover made nearly made him laugh despite the circumstances. He held up a hand. "Alright!" he said, "message conveyed. This is serious though, if there is a threat to your life…" He trailed off, not wanting to word his thoughts.

Aragorn grasped for his hand and Faramir gave in. He could not deny his King this limited physical contact if he desired it.

"I will find whoever did this," Faramir vowed as he felt the warm fingers cover his own. "I thought you would never be warm again…" Collecting himself, he drew a long breath. "I should commence the inquiries, and I am in need of some food as well... I will get the healer to see you."

"I hate to leave you," he added in a lower voice.

His hand was given a small squeeze but it was accompanied by a yawn from the King.

"But I see you need some rest," Faramir smiled. "I will return later."

Reluctantly, he rose and felt his hand slip out of the comforting cavern it had been resting in.

"I love you," he mumbled as he made ready to leave, but turning his gaze to Aragorn, he saw the older man was already asleep.

oooooooooooo

His men were efficient and competent, and a couple of direct orders later, Faramir had five trusted ex-rangers taking care of the inquiries for him. Every one within the walls of the palace was to be questioned about their whereabouts the night before, that was everyone, no – absolutely no – exceptions. He would let question the whole City if he had to. He had chosen these men for two reasons. Firstly, they were uncompromising and incorruptible, traits that might come in handy should the situation arise. Secondly, they were not Faramir. The Steward, if he were to be completely honest with himself, was afraid he might affect the investigation, having feelings for the King that went beyond friendship solely.

Making his way to the kitchens to find something to quench his hunger with, he pondered this. What happened when all was resolved, and they ware suddenly faced with a future consisting of nothing else but vague promises and unspoken wishes?

Aragorn was King. _King_. He would want heirs. Heirs, being the one thing Faramir could not give him no matter how deeply he may want to.

A King… with a Steward?

The fact that this particular Steward had been made Prince following the coronation ceremony last summer did not lighten his heart.

What on earth awaited him after this?

Through the kitchen doors drifted the clamour of pots and pans being washed or hung above the fires. Carefully he pushed the door open and peered inside. The difference to the Healing Wing could not have been more distinct. Here were people rushing about, calling to each other over the clatter and clanks of plates and knives. Steam was rising from various great cauldrons along one wall and the smell of herbs and spices drifted through the stuffy air. He stepped inside, not feeling as out of place as one might think. The noise was a relief, setting his mind on a different track and scaring off the persistent worries regarding his future.

Somebody spotted him and waved him over. With a smile on his face he wound his way through the commotion, to finally be wrapped in a warm embrace by a sturdy elderly woman equipped with a huge wooden ladle and dressed in a spotless white apron.

"Faramir!" the woman beamed at him after letting him go. "I have not seen you down here for ages," she chided him, waving the ladle before his face.

"Spare me!" He avoided the wooden weapon skilfully. "I am sorry," he offered, sending her a new smile.

"I should dearly hope so!" the woman exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips and surveying him. "Something is wrong, laddie, I can plainly see that," she added in a concerned tone, her brown eyes penetrating his mind.

Faramir ran a hand through his hair. Of course, he had expected this. Mòrag knew how to read him by now, it would be strange if she did not. After all, he had sped down to the kitchens as a small boy, taking every chance he got to escape his father and his displeased stares.

"I see it, son," she repeated, preparing to assail him with the ladle again lest he did not enlighten her.

"I have two things to ask of you," he hurried to say, steering her away from the others, even though it was unlikely they would be overheard.

"Anything, laddie."

"Good. I need you to pick up on any gossip around." His eyes flew around the room. "There is a threat to the King's life… He was attacked last night by someone… and left outside." He swallowed. The image of a frozen Aragorn buried in the snow would haunt him for a long time.

Mòrag's jovial look was erased from her features as she listened to him. When he finished there was a serious frown on her face and her lips had thinned, almost to one single line. "The King attacked?!" she hissed, searching him for any more information.

He only nodded briskly. "I do not know by whom or why, but inquiries have begun. It is to be done as discreetly as possible. I do not wish for havoc straight away."

"I will keep my mouth shut, but my eyes open!" Mòrag promised him. "Imagine that! Oh, If I get my hands on the bastard…" she hit the ladle forcefully against an innocent bench.

"Thank you," Faramir said, and meaning it.

"And your second question?" She turned back to him, most likely refraining from giving air to the string of curses ready to leave her tongue.

"Oh, well… I do not wish to eat with the others… Could you find me something perhaps?"

For a few moments she beheld him in silence. Then a twinkling light crept into her eyes. "Can he eat?"

Confused, Faramir blinked. "Can who eat?"

"The King," she clarified, raising an eyebrow. "Can he eat?"

"I do not know… I have not seen… he has been sleeping." A flush broke out on his cheeks. "A lot," he added.

"Ah," she grinned unsettlingly, "I see. He needs some nourishment, I am sure. You wait here, son, and I will be right back." With a wink, she left his side and pushed her way through the crowded kitchen.

It took her only a few minutes to find a tray and load it with plates and bowls, all of them covered by lids. The tantalising scents which arose from beneath them inspired Faramir's stomach to a joyful dance.

"Here you are now," she said contentedly, handing it over. "Bring it to him and make sure he eats at least some of it. The rest is for you," she teased him as his stomach ended its dancing with a loud rumble.

Faramir could not thank her enough, but she waved his words away with a hand. "No need dear. Glad to be of service!"

"And I will let you know if I hear anything," she added in a lower voice as she escorted him towards the doors and held one open for him.

"Thank you," Faramir said once more, as he stepped through. "I am very grateful for your help."

She sighed and stilled. "I wish to see you happy, my little one. You deserve it."

He looked down, his gaze settling on the steam rising from the tray.

"Does he make you happy, Faramir?"

He nodded and swallowed yet again, momentarily unable to speak.

"You have been waiting a long time for this, I know," she murmured. "Yes, I know," she continued as he frowned. "I know, dearest, I know." Mòrag lifted a hand and stroked his cheek once before she let him go. "Off you are now."

Faramir lifted his gaze enough to see her kind face tinted with the shadows of sadness and concern. He tried a pale smile and then turned back towards the Healing Wing.

oooooooooooo

The Healing Wing was calm and peaceful, strangely devoid of any smells or scents. From the tray he carried the steady stream of steam still flowed. On approaching Aragorn's door, he set down his burden on a small table beside the wall. If the King was not allowed to eat, Faramir suspected he could down all this food in one mouthful. However, that was not the idea.

Carefully opening the door, he looked inside. The curtains were pulled back and the full light of day entered through the windows. In his bed, Aragorn was awake and supported by several large pillows, mounted behind his back. The blond healer was sitting on a stool beside him, speaking softly and pointing to some parchments he was holding.

For some reason, to Faramir it felt like intruding on a private moment and he was about retreat from the doorway when the healer turned around and Aragorn looked up.

The broad smile that crossed the King's face as he noticed his Steward was enough to wipe the healer's words out of his system as soon as Faramir registered that he was speaking.

The skin on Aragorn's face was covered by a thin sheen of salve that reflected the daylight. The red marks seemed to have calmed down somewhat. Faramir crossed the floor, forgetting the tray outside.

"You are awake," he said softly, stating the obvious. Coming close to the bedside, he was lost in the grey depths that caught him.

"I am," said Aragorn with his head resting on the pillows.

"And you are speaking?"

"That too. Do you not approve?"

"Of course I approve!" he had time to hastily state, before he saw the amused look before him. "Oh…"

"Hey…" Aragorn spoke softly, reaching out for him.

Faramir shot a glance at the newly-remembered healer sitting not two feet away from him.

"I cannot prevent it, can I?" The healer gave a mock-sigh, but he did not look angry. "But take care. It is better if your hand is held by the King's than the other way around."

Faramir shifted uncomfortably at the words, not at all used to this open display of emotion. He would never refuse Aragorn though and despite his nervousness, he was happy to feel the other man's fingers closing around his hand.

"We were discussing treatments," Aragorn informed him, inclining his head to the parchments.

"As the King is a skilled healer himself, I found it appropriate to go over this with him," the healer said. "Now, we have some different options to consider, but it depends on the weather as well. Should this winter come to an end sometime we can have herbs brought to us from Rivendell. They would no doubt do us good."

Aragorn inhaled deeply and turned back to his Steward. "Love," he began, "my legs…"

Faramir's heart skipped a beat. "Yes?" he asked breathlessly.

"My legs were injured last night. Further," he sighed. Pain, emotional rather than physical, was evident in his eyes. "I will be able to walk, but it will take some strength and patience. And the distances will be shorter…" He ended quietly, turning away.

The healer rose from the stool and moved away from them tactfully.

"So," Aragorn continued slowly, "I understand I you do not want… me."

The hold on his hand slackened and Faramir saw the dark void opening up before them.

It took nothing at all to close it.

It took only a determined heart. Something he did have this time.

"I want you, no matter what," he whispered. "I love you."

Aragorn looked up and there were tears filling his eyes.

"Never say that again," Faramir told him. "Never."

"Are you sure?"

"I am," he nodded, using Aragorn's wording from before.

As the first tear spilled down his lover's cheek, Faramir leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his hair. The grip on his hand strengthened and he squeezed back as much as he dared.

"I love you, Faramir." Aragorn's voice was unsteady but clear.

Straightening his back, the Steward took yet another step to make sure darkness be banned from his life. "Shall we leave all this doubt behind us?" he suggested. Any other day he would say it was a risk opening up like this, but now it was a required one.

"I would be happy to," smiled Aragorn through his tears. "Very happy."

"I wish I could kiss you."

"So do I."

Faramir smiled back, the knowledge that his man was finally his beginning to lighten his heart. However, there were some things left say.

"I thought last night that you did not want to see me… that was why you never showed up." he admitted, feeling utterly stupid now that he knew the real reason for why Aragorn had been missing.

"I would never leave you if I had a say in it."

Faramir's neglected stomach gave a loud, annoyed rumble.

"Very romantic!" Aragorn laughed.

"I brought food!" Faramir exclaimed as if he had forgotten to lock the gates to the very City at night. "Now it has probably gone cold," he mourned dismally as Aragorn continued laughing.

A hand on his shoulder made him look up.

"I expect I will find it outside?" The healer smiled fatherly at him. "I will heat it up for you. Do not engage in anything while I am gone and cannot keep an eye on you."

"Thank you," Faramir settled for, not sure how to respond.

He sunk down on the stool and placed his head on the bed. Aragorn's hand landed on his hair and began stroking it.

"So the circle closes," the King mused. "I cannot wait to get out of here and have you all to myself, without supervision."

"I would like that."

They had been sitting in silence for a while when the healer returned with the tray, the pots smoking once more.

"I bring something else too," he announced. "Or rather someone."

"My lord," a deep voice spoke up from the doorway.

Faramir flew up from his seat and watched as one of the rangers he had appointed the task of investigating the attack walked into the room.

"Eachann?" he asked. "Any news?"

The tall, broad-shouldered man wore a grim face.

"Trouble, Captain."

**tbc**

**So tell me, how do want to see this played out? If I don't see you before next Friday, have a great Halloween and – if you happen to walk that path – a blessed Samhain!**


	18. Accusing

**So, have you been eagerly awaiting this instalment? What if it all consists of weird ramblings and a full report on my grocery lists from August to mid-October? Oh, wouldn't you be disappointed! :D One never knows… only one way to find out… Long chapter ahead! (I did have a lot a groceries to pick up in September…)**

**Chapter 18**

"_Trouble, Captain."_

Faramir eyed the large man in the doorway intently. For one so frank and brutal a man – Eachann's hand stayed forever close to the hilt of his sword and would wield it more often than not –, he did look utterly uncomfortable and nervous.

"Trouble? What trouble?"

"I am not sure, sir."

"You are not sure?"

Frowning, Faramir stepped up closer but he did not miss the quick glance his ranger threw across the room.

"How is the King?"

"The King will be fine," Faramir answered warily, not at all liking the way in which this man was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. This was most unlike him and it caused a disconcerting feeling to grow within the Steward.

"Good," said Eachann and turned his eyes away.

"Yes, good," said Faramir slowly. "Outside."

Eachann turned on his heel immediately, trained as he was to heed his orders, and stepped outside into the hallway. Faramir followed him swiftly, looking only at Aragorn as he closed the door behind them. The healer was tending to him and they both appeared once more submersed in the discussion about treatments.

As soon as they were alone he stood to face the other man. "So, what have you to report?"

If he had hoped this seclusion would change Eachann's strange behaviour, he was wrong. The ranger had been serving Faramir for many years but the Steward had never seen him thus before. If he was a man who knew what it was to fidget with the hem of his tunic, he would do so now.

"So," Faramir pressed, "tell me."

"We have found him, sir."

"You have _found him_?"

Faramir stared. Then his mind caught up with him. "You found the person responsible for the King's condition?"

"Yes," Eachann admitted, but he did so in a reluctant sort of way. "But…"

"But?"

Gondor's Steward resisted the urge to shake the ranger violently and scream at the top of his lungs. "But what?!" he demanded.

Eachann cleared his throat. "He has a strange story to tell."

And then, again, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Oh, he does, does he?" Faramir snorted, his irritation augmenting. He had not much civility to spare at present. "I presume he denies everything and claims he was far away from Minas Tirith even, two nights ago?"

"No, sir." Eachann shook his head.

"He confesses?"

"In a way."

"'In a way'? What is that supposed to mean?"

"He wants to explain his actions."

Faramir stared at this former ranger, so reluctant to consider himself anything else – and so unused to calling his Captain 'Steward' and roaming palace corridors instead of the forests of Ithilien.

"And he shall," Faramir agreed, swallowing his anger. "Lead me to him, Eachann and he can explain to me."

He took one step but was hindered immediately. The ranger slowly lowered his arm, looking slightly embarrassed on top of his already uneasy demeanour. "I am sorry, sir."

Faramir closed his eyes momentarily and drew a long breath. "What is it?"

"Sir, he wishes to speak. But he says he will only do so in front of the Council."

The Steward's eyes flew open. "In front of the whole Council," he asked incredulously.

"Yes, Captain."

"But," Faramir glanced at the closed door, "that includes the King."

Eachann stood silent before him.

"Certainly we can deal with him without involving the King?"

Aragorn had only just begun recovering, for heaven's sake! He did not need to partake in a Council meeting that would only drain him of the small amount of energy he had built up during the past hours. Faramir strongly doubted that the King was in the mood to meet the person who had replaced his general condition with a weaker one.

"Sir, I am sorry, sir..."

Faramir turned his back to the ranger. The door leading to the healing chamber hovered before him, tempting him to step through and enter a safe haven, far away from conspiratorial idiots and dangerous individuals threatening his King. But then, if he did not deal with this now, who knew what might happen?

"You have heard this 'story' of his?" Faramir asked the door.

"Only parts of it," Eachann said. "I am not sure I grasped the meaning of it."

"Alright," he sighed. "I will alert the King. I trust you can find the other Council members." He paused. "Bring them here. The King cannot be moved to the hall."

"Very well, sir."

"And Eachann," Faramir turned around to face the ranger, "I will ask you to delay a little. The King needs a couple of hours to eat and rest." His voice faltered, but he kept his gaze firm.

_We need a couple of hours…_

"No problem."

The ranger gave a curt nod and promptly turned on his heel once more. Faramir watched him disappear down the hallway before he pushed open the door and did cross the threshold.

Across the room, the curtains were half-drawn, letting the light inside but still keeping some of it away, so that it would not strain the King's eyes. The small fire had been tended to and blazed merrily in its place, filling the room with its crackling and wheezing noises. A large mound of pillows and blankets took up two chairs to his right, resting beside a low table laden with bottles, jars and pouches. And, of course, alongside the windows was the bed containing the one man Faramir had not only swore his duty and his allegiance to, but also given his heart and offered his very breath of life.

Aragorn lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily. The parts of his skin visible were still covered in salve and looked remarkably irritated. Silently crossing the floor, Faramir realised how little he cared about this; it was not to his King's appearance he had promised his existence.

The tray he had brought up from the kitchens was placed on the bedside table and looked disturbed. In a good way though, he decided as he lifted a lid and noticed that what he deemed was a pot that had once contained soup, was empty. After pulling up another chair, he examined the other pots and was pleased to find dried meat, a stew made of root vegetables and some bread and cheese. Having absolutely no care for manners, he threw himself at the food, devouring half of it in less than three minutes.

"There is no soup…"

Faramir nearly dropped the bread that was presently holding his full attention. Aragorn had turned his head and was now peering at him through half-lidded eyes. There was a gleam in the grey though, that told the Steward his King was not as tired as he looked.

Chewing, Faramir only managed a shrug and an awkward grimace. Aragorn smiled, clearly quite amused.

"I am sorry, love. I ate it. Forgive me?"

Wondering how he possibly could have taken such a huge bite, Faramir chewed and chewed, doing his very best to swallow.

"Please?" Aragorn's smile was continuously growing.

Faramir nodded, reaching for a mug he hoped would contain some water.

"I need to hear you say it…" his lover pressed, the light in his eyes dancing.

Finally able to swallow all of the bread, Faramir aimed a mock-slap in Aragorn's direction, only drawing a soft laugh from him. "Yes!" he declared, watching how the older man was practically beaming. "You are forgiven. Happy now?"

"Aye, very pleased," Aragorn acknowledged and caught his hand before Faramir had time to slump back into the chair. Carefully he pressed his lips to it. "Most pleased," he amended.

"Good," Faramir smiled and reached for the stew again with his other hand.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "I see I cannot compete with the food."

"You can. Anytime. Just not. Right now," Faramir announced between bites. He let the other man hold on to him though, inwardly revelling at the contact. By every second that passed, his body seemed to remember the touch, reawakening and wanting more. Then he remembered something else.

"Aragorn?"

"Mhm?" The King was exploring his palm with his fingertips, sending tingle after tingle rippling across his skin.

"They have caught him."

Aragorn raised his eyes to his face, questions of every kind filling them. The movements of his hand, ceasing.

"I do not know much," Faramir admitted, pushing away the tray after finishing the off the last of the edible morsels. "Only that he will only speak in front of the whole Council. I agreed, reluctantly."

"You would not have done so if it was not necessary."

It was not a question, nor a statement. It was more of a reflection.

"I would not. They will all be here in a few hours."

Fingers once more began travelling over his palm.

"I trust you," Aragorn said.

The sleeve of the much creased and well-used shirt Faramir wore was gently pushed back to expose more of his skin. Delicate patterns, circles and spirals, were traced by Aragorn's fingers all the way up to the elbow.

"I should wash," Faramir began mumbling, but was silenced by the look of burning need that Aragorn sent him.

"I want more of you," the King whispered hoarsely, his hand increasing their strokes.

Faramir's mouth went dry as his heart soared and his stomach sank, leaving an empty void in his body. A void quickly filled with worry, expectation, nervousness and – lust.

"We cannot," he said unsurely. "You should not even…" he glanced at his own arm being caressed by determined fingers.

"I sent the healer away to get some sleep," Aragorn stated quietly but firmly. "We are alone for now."

"But..."

"No."

"No?" Faramir smiled weakly, his stomach turning over and over again in the most pleasant unpleasant way he had ever experienced.

"I want more of you," Aragorn repeated. "Lock the door. Not the inner door, the healer passes through that one, but the other one."

The walk was so short; in only a few moments the task was completed. Nonetheless, Faramir was aware of nothing else but his own mind reeling and the fluttering, almost nauseous feeling within. He noticed not the floor he walked upon, nor the cold iron click of the lock as it snapped. There was naught but his own being, and Aragorn, in his mind.

He came to stand at the bed, his eyes caught by his lover's.

"So…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Lie by me," Aragorn asked. "There is room for you."

Where Faramir's constructive and practical mind would have opposed this, he found that his heart did not. Slowly he pulled off his boots, and carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Movement behind him suggested that the other man was shifting and changing his position, albeit probably with some difficulty.

"Lie down."

Swallowing, but for a very different reason this time, Faramir slipped into the bed beside his lover who had managed to turn onto his side. There was room, not much, but enough. Facing the King, he thought his heart had never beaten like this before, not even on the first night they spent together this winter.

"Let me do this, please?" Aragorn said in a low voice. "I know you, my love, I know you only care for me and I am ever grateful, but let me do this. You want to protest, but I must prove to… myself, that I can still…" His voice trailed off and his so unwavering gaze gave way to insecurity.

"I cannot touch you." Faramir repeated the words he hated.

"But I can touch you."

The Steward felt a rush of colour speeding to his face. "You do not need to…"

"Maybe I want to," Aragorn said. "And since I was able to eat earlier, I believe I can do, this."

Faramir did not register exactly how it happened – who scooted over or reached out – all he was aware of was how he closed his eyes, only to have soft lips pressed against his own. He hardly dared to kiss back, but instead felt the light touch envelop him in a warm embrace.

Then there was more as Aragorn's arm stole around him and held him as close as he might. Their lips did not move, they just stayed connected as if they were sealing this loving alliance between King and Steward. Aragorn loosened his grip and began stroking the younger man's back, working his hand inside the shirt and settling upon bare skin. His mind clouding over, Faramir breathed deeply, trying to pour all of his emotions into the simple joining of lips.

His body came alive under Aragorn's touch and he felt blood stream through his veins once more – warm blood, not the chilly substance that had seemed to occupy him these past days. Fingers tangled in his hair, sent shivers along his spine and gradually worked their way down to the waistband of his leggings.

Clutching his hands, Faramir forced himself not to give in return. No matter what Aragorn might say, he was not going to disturb the healing process of his skin.

One finger slipped beneath the material, causing the warm blood to race to Faramir's groin. Momentarily, his lips left Aragorn's mouth as he needed an extra breath of air.

"May I?" his lover whispered.

"Yes," Faramir breathed but shivered anyway as Aragorn's hand undid the laces and slipped inside, brushing against his semi-awakened manhood.

Heat collected within as a cautious caress sent him swirling. He hardened rapidly as he was stroked, fighting the urge to thrust into the moving hand. The only thing that would ground him was to capture the lips he had let go, and so he did. A low, content moan from Aragorn matched his own ones as he felt lust coursing through him. His lover smeared the liquid escaping the tip of his length and the strokes became smoother.

It became increasingly hard not to touch Aragorn, but Faramir held back and allowed the sensations to overtake him. The movements urged him to loosen his grip on reality and he succumbed to these unspoken wishes until all that surrounded him was his mounting desire and Aragorn's presence.

His erection throbbed in the hand that held it, his body trembling and he had no control over the groans which he knew were his own. When his muscles finally contracted and he came in the warm grip, he lost all awareness of even his body.

Aragorn's lips were still pressed to his when he opened his eyes. He noticed vaguely he was still being caressed, although the touch was lighter.

"You are beautiful," Aragorn smiled, so close to him.

"I…" Faramir began weakly.

"No." His lover withdrew his hand and wiped it on the sheets between their bodies. But his smile did not falter. "You are beautiful."

Blushing faintly, Faramir clumsily tied the laces. Uncertain of what to say, he stole a glance at his King. "I would return the favour," he tried, simultaneously realising it sounded like he had been sent a load of grain and was currently offering to do the same next week.

To his relief, Aragorn only laughed. "Soon enough, perhaps. But this is no more than fair," he continued, pulling Faramir close to him. "You did the same for me some weeks ago, if you remember… When I was too tired to pleasure you."

"The first night," Faramir said, reliving memories with complete clarity.

"The first night in a long time."

"I was so nervous," he admitted, images of Aragorn's chambers and bed, flooding his mind.

"So was I." Aragorn smiled and gently placed his lips on Faramir's for one more, motionless kiss.

Another type of warmth swathed Faramir in its sheltering cloak. He nestled into his lover's embrace, letting drowsiness guide him into a nurturing darkness. He fell asleep with his hands resting on the sheets, but with Aragorn's hands holding him.

ooooooooooo

He awoke to a gentle shaking, low muttering and maybe a huff or two. Groggily he opened his eyes and could see that Aragorn was given the same treatment.

Rolling over in the small space, Faramir looked directly into the disapproving eyes of the healer who was shaking his head just as much as he was shaking the sleepy men in the bed. His heart sank all the way to the floor.

"I should have known," the healer sighed as Faramir struggled to sit up gracefully, but suspecting he failed miserably. "I should have known..."

Beside him, Aragorn sighed deeply and reached out for his young lover blindly.

"Oh no, you will not!" the healer warned him and the tone of his voice obviously served to bring the King out of his sleep, for he too opened his eyes.

Instead of the hurried actions that Faramir had engaged in – and possibly the felt embarrassment – a slow smile spread across his lips. "Ah," he said simply.

"Ah indeed!" the healer retorted but his face was not the harsh mask Faramir dreaded. "My liege, I see it is impossible to leave you alone for the shortest of moments."

"I am merely ensuring my welfare," Aragorn said, keeping his expression as straight as he could. "Our welfare," he added, turning a much more tender gaze to Faramir.

Faramir himself found there was not a lot he could do. He allowed a small loving smile for Aragorn to see, but he stayed put in his sitting position, trapped between the King and his healer.

"Gods," the healer exclaimed. "With all due respect my lord, you are impossible!"

Aragorn's smile grew brighter. "So we have an impossible situation and an impossible sovereign. It is only you, my love, who are without fault," he said, covering Faramir's hand with his own.

Blushing furiously by now, for what seemed to be the hundredth time this day, Faramir mumbled something incoherently.

"Yes," the healer nodded, his eyes narrowing. "I would not blame you, my Steward. I do not believe this is your fault at all." The last words were directed at Aragorn who looked all too conspiratorial for his own good. "Anyhow, gentlemen, I suppose you wish to know that the Council will – and the gods know I would have forbade it if I knew of it beforehand – assemble here in a half-hour. That should give you time enough to – wash."

This news set Faramir's mind working again. "Aragorn, we must get ready."

"Aye, I guess," Aragorn agreed, his voice less playful now. "I shall see you in a little while then."

The healer stepped aside as Faramir slipped out of the bed, infinitely grateful that he had already tied his leggings. Pulling on his boots, he regarded Aragorn where he lay. Had all of this – _everything_ that had happened in the past weeks – been necessary to bring them together? Or would it have come to that anyway?

It was too great a question to be considered in this moment.

"Let us finish this business." Aragorn spoke softly now. "And then we can concentrate on what is… in our hearts."

Expecting the healer to interfere at any moment, Faramir dared to stand as close a possible to the bed. Leaning down, he placed a feather light kiss on Aragorn's lips. "Yes, please," he murmured before pulling away and leaving the chamber unwillingly.

oooooooooooo

Chairs had been produced and arranged near the fire-place. The members of the High Council had all arrived and despite their looks of bewilderment and confusion, they had pulled themselves together and were now speaking in low voices. The King had had help to wash and dress, and was looking as royal as could be asked of him whilst still confined to bed. Faramir could only admire his performance as he was himself rather uncomfortable and was hovering in the back of the chamber, near the inner door. The only person who was not a Council member but had been granted permission to remain was the healer and he had withdrawn into a corner, seemingly immersed in the study of various documents.

In fact, the were piles of documents everywhere, spilling over and covering every inch of the tables placed in front of the Council members. Wood had been added to the fire and the flames were greedily watching the parchments, now and then sending a hopeful spark flying towards them. So far the only thing the fire had accomplished was to burn a small hole in the robe of one of the Elders, who was still rubbing the darkened spot angrily.

Then the door opened and Eachann's broad shoulders and grim face appeared in the doorway. He gave a quick nod in Aragorn's direction as Faramir drew closer to the chairs.

This was it.

Several former rangers filed in and then a slim figure was hauled inside. He wore an immaculate tunic, blood red and black, and his blond hair was neatly combed. He held his chin high as he regained his footing and surveyed the healing room and the assembled Council members with an almost fascinated stare.

"My lords." He bowed.

Deren.

Faramir gripped hard the first item that presented itself to him. It happened to be another piece of parchment that crumpled unhappily in his hand.

"Deren son of Vorgen," the appointed Elder began. "You have confessed to the attack on the King of Gondor two nights ago, and the following actions…"

His voice was drowned out by the buzzing anger in Faramir. He had trusted this man to speak his heart to him on at least some occasions! He had been made welcome into Minas Tirith in the depth of winter, into the very royal halls and now he had tried to murder the King?!

Aragorn who would normally have presided over this Council was, because of this man, forced to lie in bed, unable to move his legs and maybe without much hope of ever doing so! To Faramir, the promises the healer had made about Aragorn's condition, were immediately lost. Deren had reduced a magnificent warrior to a crippled being. The memory of the accident with the horse fled Faramir's mind as he regarded Deren with utter contempt.

"You admit to this?" the Elder asked.

"I do," Deren nodded. "I am responsible for this." He made an elegant gesture with one hand, indicating Aragorn's state.

Had they been alone, Faramir would not have been able to answer for his actions.

"But I have more to say," Deren continued in a voice that demanded attention. "I have asked to speak in front of your Council for a good reason."

There was some low murmuring amongst the members. Faramir glanced over at Aragorn who was watching attentively with a face set in stone. The only thing that betrayed his feelings was the unnaturally clenched jaws.

"And what will you speak of, if I may ask?" one of the other Council members asked with a hint of taunting glee.

Deren's eyes drifted over the room and settled on him. He stepped forward, and so did the guards. "I will speak of important matters," he said. As calm as ever he was, but there was an underlying menace in his tone now. "I will speak of the threat to Gondor, and therefore the threat to this world that we know."

His gaze lifted and once more sought out its targets. "I will speak of serious matters that include both your beloved King…" his eyes strayed to Aragorn but moved on, "and you trusted Steward."

Faramir felt those eyes fixed upon his own form.

"Or should I say, 'your King's beloved Steward'?"

**tbc**

**Aye, what say ye? **

**I'm telling you: this chapter was NOT supposed to include a sex scene – but as I was writing, things just moved along uncontrollably… **


	19. Telling

**I long debated with myself on how to do this... It was not easy, and you will see that I finally settled on the not so nice version. But, if I may say so, I'm actually quite proud of this chapter. There's A LOT of talking in it so hold on to your hat and your ears and let us begin.**

**Chapter 19**

"_Or should I say, 'your King's beloved Steward'?"_

Deren took one more step forward. He moved like a lazy cat, eyeing the Council members like they were his dinner already cut in pieces and displayed tantalisingly on a silver platter before him. But he had not set out to devour them; he was intent on nailing them to the floor with his sweetened words and the slow smile that contrasted starkly to the dangerous gleam in his eyes. It was too obvious. Nonetheless, he held their full attention.

"Yes," he mused now, "it seems an appropriate wording." He spun suddenly around, turning fully towards Aragorn and exhibiting a small frown. "If that truly is the case, my lord…" He glanced over at Faramir. "Perhaps… yes, perhaps I should rephrase it?"¨

His space was limited, but the elegant dance he was performing needed not much room. Well-chosen words and glances complemented the twists and turns of his feet effectively.

"Ah yes, gentlemen, this is how we shall put it: 'The Steward's beloved King', for I do not know for certain that the King returns the feelings that his loyal servant has so generously offered him." His smile had not grown but remained the same.

"Enough!"

Dazed, beyond shock, Faramir watched the appointed Elder raise a hand to stem the flow of words.

"Enough of this! Of _what_ are you speaking?"

Of course, Deren's words would not pass unnoticed. Gradually Faramir began to understand the implications of what was being said before them and his vision swam. Matters, long veiled by the mists of secrecy were now being revealed in the full light of day, to people who had no business delving into them.

What made Faramir feel a wave of nausea washing over him though, was that he knew perfectly well that these people had every right to know because it concerned all and everyone of them.

Deren knew that as well.

"I have not yet spoken of much," Deren said, "I seek only a way to introduce you to the information I carry, without confusing you."

The Elder snorted. "If you take my beard for a sign of my age you are correct, but my feet carry me swiftly and my mind is clear. Old age does not make a man a fool!"

Immediately Deren's face softened and his voice filled with earnest. "Forgive me, I meant no such thing."

The Elder did not look entirely mollified, but he apparently found no reason to pursue the subject further.

"If you would relay to us this so called information you claim to carry?" He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, surveying the young man.

"Certainly." Deren bowed, an apologetic look about him still.

But when he straightened, only seconds later, his eyes had taken up the dance his feet had previously engaged in. Faramir would have had a thousand thoughts cross his mind, had Deren not begun speaking in this moment and the tone of foreboding that tinted his words helped not at all.

"Lords of the Council, this is my tale. I came to the White City as a simple traveler, in the company of good men, all of us messengers, sent forth by our own people – the people that you serve, the people of Gondor. As all the other races of this earth, we rejoiced when the war came to an end and the Dark Lord finally perished. We had many to thank and among them is our King, naturally." Deren bowed shortly in Aragorn's direction before he turned back to the Council members. Faramir wanted to throw up.

"Yes, there was great joy for the old line of Kings was restored and there was once more hope and promise in the wind. Then happened what should not have happened to such great man. Our King was injured and though not many, dare I say 'none' even, from our regions saw him, word carried to us that he was weakened."

Deren's eyes did not wander as he continued speaking. Everyone else sat perfectly still.

"Yet, even a weakened King was far, far better than the poor rule and the threat of doom that we had endured only months earlier. So we still rejoiced and prosperity grew – that, I shall not deny. However, when winter came to these lands, it was harsh, bitter and colder than any winter anyone in Gondor could recall. The old and the very young suffered – and still do – greatly, and the animals are poorly shielded from freezing winds and frosty nights. Strong men, I among them, were called upon to travel hither, to ensure the welfare of our people."

A discreet cough from the Elder, head of the Council this day, urged Deren to speed up his tale. "These troubles we already know of and, I believe, have already seen to," he said decisively. "If you wish to be heard, you shall have to quicken your speech!"

"Sir." Deren's features were set. "I wish you to fully understand my cause, but I shall heed your word as you wish."

"We were made welcome, and for this I thank you," he continued. "And we were heard and our demands were seen to as you say. But with my own eyes I could now see what rumour had before only whispered to me: the King was indeed weak, maybe too weak to reign properly."

At this, calmness shattered and several sharp intakes of breath could be heard around the room. A few of the Council members exchanged sharp looks and the appointed Elder narrowed his gaze. Faramir held his breath.

"Under the circumstances, Deren son of Vorgen, this statement does not surprise me," the Elder said, "but I warn you: choose your words carefully."

Deren held up a hand as if resigning to this, or possibly in a gesture of peace.

"I hear you. Nonetheless, I speak only my mind. The King was no strong man, ready to defend Gondor with his own sword, should the situation arise as it may. But I also noted that he had good help. He is loyally served by those who _love him._"

Was it only Faramir who knew the deeper meaning of these words? Aragorn would understand, but the Steward dared not to look at him. He let Deren continue instead, they all did, trapped in the web he so cunningly spun with his every breath. He spoke slower now, taking great care to word his thoughts.

"The Line of the Old Kings… restored it is now, but will it last? Will it last, my lords?" He looked about him, the unanswered question hung in the air, and Faramir began to comprehend where this was going.

That was a realisation that inserted fear into every single part of his body and mind.

"Some speak of an old love of the King, a love that would certainly have ensured this. But these tale-tellers say that she left the King as the war approached. They say she was an Elf of noble birth, but that she sailed into the West and that it was the King's wish."

Closing his eyes, Faramir heard Aragorn shift in his bed.

"But what these people do not know is that the King has a new lover."

He got no further.

"This is improper!" The Elder bellowed, echoed by the other members of the Council. "Surely this goes beyond what is appropriate, and we shall have no more of it!"

But there was a fire in Deren's eyes now. "My lords!" His voice had gained in power and he spoke very clearly. "You have granted me leave to speak, so speak I shall. It is my right, is it not?"

Faramir heard every syllable, every word burned his heart but there was no way to stop this. He could not hinder Deren to speak, and neither could the Council. Deren was met with only a nod, and despite the look of deep mistrust on the Elder's face, the old man fell silent.

"Yes, our King has a new lover, but I am afraid it will be the end of the royal line. The victorious blood of Elendil shall be buried along with the body of our sovereign on the day that he dies. You deserve to know, my lords, that you are serving a King who will take from you the very hope we have fought for and lived to see rise again – only to be destroyed and lost!"

A murmuring broke out in the healing chamber. Nailed to the floor, Faramir could only stare. Wave after wave of nausea flooded him and it became hard to breathe.

"It is so," Deren confirmed, taking advantage of the simmering energy around them. "It is so. For this lover will give the King no children, no heirs, and so his line will die with him and all shall come to an end. The people of Gondor, who have endured so much, will see their kingdom fall into pieces at their very feet. For how could it be otherwise when the lover that our King has chosen, is a man?"

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Dreaded, hateful silence. Even Deren appeared struck by the sudden heaviness around them.

Faramir knew that he breathed but he felt no air enter his lungs. He knew the Council members were alive, but watching them was like watching a painting. No one moved, no one spoke.

Until the Elder stirred and broke his own unmoving stance. "Pray, tell us," he said slowly, "how this relates to your own actions?"

Equally slowly, Deren inclined his head. "I am not proud of my deeds. But as you can plainly see, there is now before you a new threat to Gondor, maybe to Middle-earth itself. I acted on impulse, thinking wildly that if I removed the King before he destroyed his reign, all would be well. I see now of course that is impossible, but we shall be ruined in either way."

"There is no logic to this," the Elder shook his head. "Yet, undoubtedly you know this yourself. You shall be charged and sentenced accordingly."

He turned over a parchment before him on the table and sighed. "Truly, I know not how to proceed."

It came as no surprise when Deren spoke up again. "Perhaps, good sir, it would be a good idea to hear your King? I have already taken upon me the responsibility for my actions, but the future is not as certain as you might have thought it…" Even as he spoke he drew away from the Council, bowing his head.

Hesitating, the Elder sought aid from the other members. Loud whispers and frantic hisses enveloped Faramir, too shocked to do more than blink at the blond man who now stood in the shadows by the door with Eachann and his rangers hovering behind him.

"I will speak."

The deep voice rang out in the chamber, silencing the Council members. Dreading the sight, for the first time in his life, Faramir turned to look at his King.

The image of Aragorn's face might have been carved in stone, so hard and drawn it was. He stared directly at the Council, ignoring both Faramir and Deren. There was no light in his eyes, no softness about his lines, and no compassion or kindness surrounded him.

"My lord," the Elder began uncertainly, "there is no need for…"

Aragorn cut him off. "I will speak. I will answer these accusations laid before me, so hear me now."

The stern look he sent his counsellors prevented any of them from protesting when they would have wanted to. Officially, he had not been charged and therefore he did not need to answer, but Faramir knew that was not an option. Aragorn would never accept something like this silently.

"I feel naught but disgust," the King began as the collective wide-eyed stare of the Council settled upon him and the men hung on his every word. "Yet, I will not deceive you. You are all aware of my condition and it would be a lie if I told you I could take up my own sword to defend the Reunited Lands, much less the whole of Middle-earth. I trust you know me well enough to be assured that this grieves me deeply."

A few of the Council members bowed their heads, but most of them could not take their eyes away.

"However, I trust my armies and should the time come when war is upon us again, I will do my best to inspire them to fight hard, just as I would have done myself. If this is not enough for you, you may choose from among Men, a new King, if you deem that necessary."

Protests erupted despite Aragorn's grim stare, but they faded quickly as he continued speaking.

"I will say no more of this. The other matter of concern that needs to be approached and dealt with, however much discussing it here displeases me – to say the least – is the question of my bloodline."

Cringing inwardly, Faramir wanted to disappear forever. Deep down, he had feared this day, maybe even known it would come - the day when all he had gained would be taken away from him, he had just hoped it would not be so soon, or in such a fashion. The curios looks from the people of Minas Tirith he might learn to live with, but he had no idea how he would bear to be separated from Aragorn.

Ithilien. To Ithilien he would go. He would resign from his duties and leave for the lands that had once before taken him into its arms when the whole world had come crashing down around him. The King might say whatever he wished, Faramir would be gone by the first light of day, never to be seen again in the White City.

For as long as his heart could bear it, he would live in the woodlands – be it only for a day. All was over, and no one would care. That was evident since he cared not himself.

Aragorn's voice carried him back to the present.

"I will not deny this either. What was insinuated earlier is true as well. The Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, sailed from the Grey Havens prior to the war. We were once betrothed, but we broke off the engagement when it became clear to us that what we had shared was too precious to endanger. She will always be very dear to me," he ended, his voice softer.

Faramir swallowed. It did not matter that he knew it was over, it still hurt to hear Aragorn speak of his love for Arwen. Faramir had never known the details, but had suspected that the feelings they had for each other were deep and sincere. He had thought though… No, it made no difference.

"As for this new lover of mine…" Again, Aragorn's tones hardened, but he bestowed no glance upon Deren by the door. Nor did he acknowledge Faramir's presence. "He exists and he is a male."

Another rush of murmuring carried through the room, but that was all. To Faramir it felt like he was standing atop a cliff and was slowly being pushed nearer and nearer the edge.

"Whilst I know that this is not uncommon among Men, you must understand that it is _common_ practice among Elves, and it is among them I was raised. To me, it is as natural to take a male lover as it is to take a female lover." Aragorn spoke firmly, stressing every single word as if he had decided he would take this moment to educate his Council. "Of course, a male lover cannot give me a child, and I agree, even if I do not like to do so, that the blood of Elendil should run in the veins of my heirs. Still, these are issues that are not impossible to tackle." He fell silent.

Maybe? But Faramir dismissed the thought. No.

"Thank you, my lord," the Elder said, bowing his head curtly. "I can assure you that the people – and the High Council of Minas Tirith – stand behind you. You are a great King, no matter your physical condition." A murmur of agreement followed this.

Aragorn nodded and sank back a little where he sat.

"If you please, my sirs..?" A soft voice spoke up from a forgotten corner. The healer had risen to his feet. "I should like to tend to the King."

Faramir felt his heart twist painfully as the healer hurried over to the bed and bent over Aragorn who must be exhausted by now. The two men spoke in low voices, and Aragorn was eased back down so that he might rest his head against the pillows. Desperately, Faramir wished he could go to him, but he was bound by his deeds as well and he was fairly sure Deren's eyes were upon him.

A minute later, he found out exactly how correct an assumption that was.

"My King…" The slim, blond figure slipped forward once more, demanding all of their attention. "Will you say no more? Will you lay it upon me to reveal the seriousness of this matter? Shall I be the one to tell the Council of the most improper alliance that has arisen of late in Minas Tirith?"

This time, Aragorn made no effort in hiding his anger. "To you I have nothing to say. Only that I will be part of the Council that decides your fate. Keep that in mind as you poison us with your words."

"Alas! It is a sad day indeed when the King succumbs to the weakness that holds him," Deren cried out, not caring either for politeness. "Nevertheless, I shall give you all the truth and I shall do so now. Afterwards you may punish me for my actions as you seem fit."

He needed to say no more. But he did.

"Had the King taken any lover – any other lover – I would have held my tongue, but I cannot. Members of the Council, for his lover the King has chosen his Steward. The son of the late Steward, the mad Denethor, a man that should have had no children. There he stands now, torn between obligation and desire, your innocent Faramir."

All eyes were on him and the very earth shook beneath his feet. Gladly, willingly, he would have given up his breath but the gods were cruel. Instead of taking, they gave – gave him a sense of being torn apart by hungry claws. An excruciating pain seared through his stomach and wound his way to his heart. It would trap his soul, hold him captive, and only one thing was certain: he would survive.

His blood was tinted. His father's madness was his son's doom. Whereas Aragorn's blood was too precious to be lost to the world, the warm substance that ran in Faramir's veins was useless, unwished for, detested. He was his father's son, and if Denethor could have seen this, he would have rejoiced. His fanatical laughter would have reverberated in every chamber of his former citadel. Faramir's fall had always been his wish. Now it had been granted.

"What did you say?"

Aragorn spoke. Faramir barely heard him, but he supposed it was so, since the Council members turned their faces away from him.

"_What did you say?!"_

"I speak the truth, my lord." If that was Deren's voice, it was laden with revulsion.

The King practically roared. "I will not hear such words uttered – ever again! Do I make myself clear?! You will not again suggest that… Faramir carries the shadow of his father and live through it!"

"You need a moment before you say his name?" Suddenly Deren's voice was honeyed. "Even now that you admit you have taken him for a lover?"

Faramir closed his eyes.

"I do not have to defend my actions, unlike others," Aragorn answered him menacingly. "But you shall have it from my lips if nothing else satisfies you: yes, it is so. I confirm that we are lovers."

"Ah," Deren said sweetly, "then my King, it might interest you to know that your _dear Faramir _slept in my bed on the night of your accident in the gardens."

Pain stabbed him all over again. His eyes flew open and before he knew it he spun around to face Aragorn.

The King, his love, was being restrained by a desperate healer. He was pale and looked so incredibly tired, but he had been fighting the hands that held him and from his eyes flew sparks of anger. But even as Faramir watched, Aragorn slowed his movements and shrank back. Determination fled his body and his cheeks were drained of whatever colour that was left in them. When Faramir met his eyes they were empty save for one thing:

the shock of betrayal.

**tbc**


	20. Hurting

**You remember where we left off? Good. We'll pick up immediately after that! **

**Chapter 20**

_Explain._

He felt an overwhelming need to explain. The desperate need to shed light on this awful issue was the strongest urge he had ever had - not even during his father's days had Faramir felt such great a desire to make clear his actions. And Aragorn was still watching him.

Yet, Faramir spoke no words. A heavy, suffocating silence hung in the air and a general state of shock seemed to have caught everyone present in its grip. Despite these slow-passing precious moments, and knowing full well he was dooming himself to a dreadful future, Faramir said nothing. For he would not speak of this in front of Deren and the Council. If Aragorn had any sympathy for him left, he would say nothing either, but would wait until they were alone.

This did not mean he did not feel. He now knew that it was possible for a heart to be ripped out of the chest which guarded it a hundred times over and yet it never became less painful. Even when it was your own fault. He knew too, that his eyes were pleading; the burning anxiety scorched his eyes just as it did his lungs.

When Aragorn turned his gaze away, it worked as a signal for the entire Council.

"We shall have naught of this!" the appointed Elder cried out, his voice slightly wavering but firm enough.

As soon as the words rang out, Faramir lost his focus on the outside world and instead worked frantically to stop the tidal wave of fear that threatened to swallow him from within. From far away came the distinctive sounds of an argument, but he could discern no words.

Then, as sudden as everything else had happened this evening, something in his mind surfaced.

_That night._

Something had been wrong that night.

Something.

His memories were foggy, the images blurred, but there was that _something_ nagging in the back of his mind. Diving deep into the misty sea of remembrance, Faramir fought the small voice that told him everything was already lost and there was no need to explore this maze of damnation further.

He had been so lonely that night… Aragorn had not come to dinner. So utterly lonely… Faramir had thought that since the King was not present – the King did not want him and the consequences had been that he had probably drunk more wine that night than ever before… But Aragorn had chosen not to join him.

Or so it had seemed.

It was ironic really, that when Faramir, Steward of Gondor, chose to speak for the first time that night before the High Council, his words were not meant for Aragorn, but for Deren.

"You were in his chambers."

His voice was immediately drowned in the clamour still surrounding him, so he raised it.

"You were in his chambers!"

They all stilled. Deren raised his eyes to meet him and a smug smile played upon his lips.

"Faramir." He bowed his head slightly. "I was beginning to believe that you had lost your tongue."

Fear was replaced by anger, an emotion Faramir seldom encountered in his own body. Striding towards the blond man, he repeated the words once more. "You were in his chambers. It was you who was in the King's rooms that night!" He stopped short, hindered by the Council members' chairs.

"Oh, _that_ night," Deren drawled. "Yes, I was, but not doing what _you _usually do when you are there, I suspect. Or used to do, I should say," he added with a glance at Aragorn.

Too angry to pay any attention to the insult, Faramir cursed the chairs which separated him from Deren's slim throat.

"I see it now," he cried out, but only causing the smug smile to widen. "You had already attacked the King when you had dinner. And before that you had crept into the King's chambers and pretended to be him, in order to prevent anyone from looking for him."

It was a confused explanation to the incidents some nights before, he heard it, but he was discovering what he now firmly considered as the truth as he went along, as he worded his suspicions.

"You called through the door, saying that you – the King – wanted no dinner. That woman…" Faramir thought back desperately to what the servant had told him.

"That woman was easy enough to fool," Deren stated with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We all know that the King is weak, so feigning his sleepy voice was the simplest of matters. I daresay any child could do it." Despite his choice of words, there was an icy pride in his voice.

"That is madness!" Faramir shouted with blood ringing in his ears, prepared to shove anyone who hindered him out of the way. "You have gravely endangered the King's life! He could have died!"

"Yes," Deren slowly acknowledged. "That was the idea." His smile gave way to a mask of false sweetness. "But unfortunately you had to interfere, did you not? Not that you will gain anything by it, I think, considering your betrayal of your beloved King's trust. No, I guess you have seen th einsides of the King's chambers for the last time. Funny I should be the last one of us, is it not?"

Had Faramir had his sword by his side, he would not have been able to answer for his actions if. The members of the Council must have seen his fury for the Elder hastily interrupted them.

"Enough of this! Lead him away."

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder and assured Faramir they would look into this latest discovery, but that the Council for now was adjourned. With his breathing gradually returning to a normal pace, he watched the members exit the room one by one, taking with them the piles of documents and parchment.

As his rage dissipated, the unwelcome sense of fear crept closer and slid its long, slippery fingers along his skin. Unable to move, Faramir understood that he soon, very soon, would be left alone with… Aragorn.

"Leave us."

The words were soft and tinted with weariness. Before Faramir could even begin to hope they were directed at him, there was a reluctant rustle behind him. The healer passed by him with jaws clenched and a hard gleam in his eyes. Faramir watched as he too, crossed the room, opened the door, stepped through, and was gone.

The door slid closed without a sound, except for the final click that preceded the ultimate silence.

Long moments passed. Dreadful moments during which Faramir stood nailed to the floor. He swallowed. He hardly dared to breathe. For all of his thoughts and plans and explanations, Faramir could not even open his mouth. Not even the flames in the fire-place had the courage to chatter. The floor shifted ominously beneath his feet.

"Have you so little faith in me?"

Faramir slowly turned around. There was pain everywhere: in his chest, in his stomach, in the air, in Aragorn's voice.

In the voice of the man he loved above all others – the man who should never have to live through pain at all. But so it was now, and it was he, Faramir, who was the cause of this pain.

Aragorn was leaning against the pillows, but Faramir doubted that he was resting. Despite his closed eyes, his whole body looked tense.

"_Meleth nin?"_

The words drifted off the King's lips in a drained whisper. Gradually they blended with the silence until their breathless hiss was nothing more than a faint echo in Faramir's mind. They released him from his frozen posture though, and he cautiously slid across the floor to Aragorn's bed.

He had hoped to never see the King like this again. His skin was pale, even with the red marks the snow and the cold winds had bestowed upon him, and his breathing shallow. Unmoving he lay, but the creases on his forehead could tell anyone he was far from sleep.

"Have you so little faith in me…"

The question that had become a statement became the blade that was twisted around in Faramir's already worn heart.

When the tears came, at least they brought words.

"No," he protested, as his vision blurred and his voice broke.

When Aragorn did not answer, Faramir forced his thoughts back to that dreadful night. Replaying the scenes again he remembered, and he knew he was wrong.

"Yes," he finally whispered.

Aragorn let his head fall to the side and sighed. To see him thus scared Faramir extensively.

"I lost all faith," he admitted quietly as his King would not speak. "But it has little to do with you. It has everything to do with me." He rubbed the back of his hand harshly against his eyes. "For many long years I did not believe I was worthy of anything… Love being the very last gift I expected to be granted."

He hated himself for slipping into bitterness while he spoke, but old habits die hard as he knew well by now.

"Then suddenly, there you were – the man who was to become our King and you were… beyond every dream I had ever dared to dream. And you were a man and that frightened me… It frightened me to the very depths of my being, for even if I never held my father's attention for many a minute, he had somehow managed to announce to me that he expected me to raise a family of my own. Should Boromir somehow fail… which he did, in a way… in the end."

He trailed off, lost his words to the evening. There was a deep furrow on Aragorn's brow, but he lay still without appearing like he wished to speak.

"I fell in love with you," Faramir whispered, feeling new tears well up in his eyes. "But I never thought that you would… that you might… I was nothing."

"_Goheno nin…"_

Again, the elvish words floated around Faramir like an autumn mist, and equally impossible for him to grasp. He had only picked up on a few phrases when communicating with the elven realms, always thinking he should learn more, but unprepared, the words escaped him, indistinguishable. When Aragorn fell silent once more, Faramir resumed his tale.

"I have been living in a dream these past months. I always knew I was reaching for something I was not made to have… It was finally settled tonight. I could never give you the heirs you need… A King needs more than simply a Steward and I thought that night…"

He swallowed. Now the time had come, but he was in no way prepared for it. "I thought you had finally made the decision to end things, and that was why you did not come to dinner. I was…"

He had meant to say 'devastated' but that made it sound like it was Aragorn's fault and since it was not so, he chose another angle. "I was there, I had dinner and I drank too much wine." Even though he knew he was not famous for drinking, it still caused hotness to race to his face. Or maybe that was exactly why.

"I inquired after you but was told you did not wish to be disturbed. I really did ask… I missed you," he said, his voice failing. "I longed for you, all night."

Aragorn made a small movement, but did not interrupt.

Faramir took a deep breath. "Deren said he would walk me back, and in that moment I trusted him. I trusted him – the man who had attacked you and spent the whole evening waiting for you to… die. I will never forgive myself."

He was so utterly tired. The day had been one of the longest he had ever known. Not even in comparison to battle could he say that he had often been more drained. Raking a hand through his hair, he exhaled. His eyes stung with the saltiness of his tears, and his head felt as heavy as one of the beacons in the tower.

Gathering the last amounts of energy he harboured, he finished his story. "Deren guided me to his room. I was not aware of it then. Not completely anyway," he added when he recalled how he had woken up and not been surprised about his strange whereabouts. "But I only slept there. Fully clothed, I slept _on _his bed, not _in _it, if you see my point… And I woke up a few hours later and went back to my own room, only to find no peace there either. I left for the corridors and so it was that I found you."

It was a short tale, in some sense, but it was all of him. The only thing left he had to offer.

Silence enfolded them once more as Faramir sunk down in one of the chairs that were adorning this room to an extreme extent.

"A long time ago, it seems now…" Aragorn's voice was merely a sigh when he spoke. "A long time ago it seems since I told you I saw some confidence growing within you."

Faramir bowed his head in a twinge of shame.

"Do you remember that I said I liked it?"

All words stuck in his throat, Faramir could do nothing but nod and not daring to move, he could only hope that Aragorn was looking.

"I have not changed my mind, Faramir. To see you open up has been a wonderful gift to me. Come here."

Uncertain of what was happening, Faramir pulled his chair closer to the bed. Aragorn's eyes were still closed, but his hands searched for something. With an urgent prayer to whatever gods that might still be listening to him, he nervously offered his own hand for Aragorn to hold on to. Relief washed over him as the King's fingers curled around his.

"There is so much to say," Aragorn sighed. "You think you are worth less than the sands on the plains of Mordor, and yet I believe that a part of you knows it is not so. What can I do to make you understand?"

Faramir felt like he was breaking for the thousandth time that day. "I do not know," he honestly admitted. "No one has ever asked me before… I and have not asked myself either."

The ghostly hint of a smile briefly passed over Aragorn's lips. "I would not think so," he said, but in no evil way.

"I understand your frustration," Faramir said quietly. "I am sorry."

"I will not have you beg for forgiveness. Promise me instead that you try to see your unnecessary insecurities for what they really are: unnecessary."

As much as he doubted his capacity to do this, Faramir had no intention to let Aragorn know that. "I will try," he said instead, inwardly wondering how on earth such a thing was possible.

"Can I trust that?"

Twisting in his seat, Faramir bit his lip. "Maybe."

"That will do, for now," Aragorn said, another faint smile crossing his features.

The King's body had visibly relaxed during their conversation. Now he looked like he was drifting off to sleep.

Faramir had to do it. If he did not, he would never know.

"Aragorn?"

"Mmm?"

"Forgive me for joining Deren in his room. Forgive me for causing you all this pain."

The older man stirred as if he was trying to stay awake. "Faramir…"

The Steward held his breath, hoping against the darkness that had claimed him, that there might be a light somewhere in his misery.

Aragorn let out a long, fragile breath. His grip on Faramir's hand strengthened temporarily and then lessened.

"There is much to say, so much… You could never hurt me… never hurt me, _meleth_."

Faramir let his head fall forward to rest on the bed. He was not sure what he had been gifted, but it healed his torn soul a little.

"Lie down by me?"

The words were so faint his first reaction was to ignore them, but a slight tug on his hand emphasised their essence. Warily, Faramir stood and kicked off his boots. He gave Aragorn several minutes to change his mind but when nothing happened he sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully slid down into a lying position.

As Aragorn's breathing eased and deepened, Faramir covered his hand with his own yet again. The smallest of true smiles captured the King's lips and that gladdened Faramir so, that he dared to snuggle closer and even pull a part of the blanket over himself.

To breathe in Aragorn's scent, to be near him like this after the day they had just experienced was more than he could ever have asked for. Outside, the first stars were beginning to pierce the evening sky, but no matter the time of day, Faramir would be ever grateful for this moment. His eyes finally drifted shut and he had almost lost himself to dreams, when a drowsy voice spoke in low tones.

"'…if you see my point?' You sound like a hobbit."

And _that_ made Faramir smile.

**tbc**

**Too fluffy for ya? :D **

**_Meleth_ (_meleth nin_) is Sindarin for 'love' ('my love') as I presume a lot of you already know. _Goheno nin_ means 'forgive me'. **


	21. Sacrificing

**I do realise that updates aren't as frequent as they once were, but I've taken on **_**way **_**too many writing projects… And also, I would hate to rush this story and just write for the sake of writing. So don't despair and bear with me, please! I know it's been a while since I last did this, but occasionally I like to keep you on your toes, so: change of perspective! Forget all about your current location (which should be somewhere inside Faramir's head) and please relocate to Aragorn's mind! **

**For Grey Pigeon who is the most amazing and devoted supporter, and to whom I should have dedicated a chapter a long, long time ago. This story would never have gone on for so long if it hadn't been for all of your faithful reviewing last summer. Your interest was what kept me going. I'm ever grateful!**

**ooo**

**Warning: We're getting down to the nitty-gritty… And are going to deal with one of the main issues now. Some of you will undoubtedly hate me for what I have done. There's a long explanatory note following this chapter. **

**Chapter 21 - Sacrificing**

The solid security of another body next to him was a luxury that the King of Gondor had for a few agonising hours the day before judged to be cruelly stolen from him. He did not open his eyes as Faramir's slow breathing and warmth was enough for him to enjoy at the moment. Staying somewhere in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness, Aragorn tried to match his breathing with his bed mate's, but even half asleep, he found that he needed to draw breath more often.

Faramir in his sleep had rocked back and lay now against him. From head to toe, his lean frame counted on the strength of Aragorn's body to keep him in his position. Ironic it was how the King could not even move his own legs and so subsequently could offer no support.

The taste of bitterness clung to Aragorn's tongue as if the thoughts had been worded and spoken aloud. The metallic flavour was not unlike that of blood – and Aragorn had tasted enough blood on the battlefield to know. But now those days were over, whether he liked it or not. And in this moment, he had no idea which he preferred.

But then, it was not like he had a choice.

These unbidden thoughts brought him back to the living world, the one he had hoped to evade for a little longer. Even more unbidden, the memory of yesterday's events forced themselves upon him. He knew not what he saw more clearly and what he consciously – or unconsciously as it might be – avoided to consider. What he honestly believed though, was that all of it should be forgotten and moved past as quickly as possible. And if that proved to be the wrong decision, then he would face the consequences later. Sick to the core of distrust and manipulation, Aragorn had perceived no deceit in Faramir's eyes last night.

Giving a soft sigh, the Steward shifted against him. Rather than pulling away, as Aragorn feared he might, the younger man nestled closer and buried his face in the dark mess of tresses that had not been combed through since Aragorn had been brought to the healing chamber.

This was a blessing. For the first time since his accident, both the first one and now this second one, Aragorn was truly grateful that Mandos had not called him to his Halls of Waiting yet. What he would think after he and Faramir had breeched the subject they had only briefly brushed upon yesterday, that was another matter.

The King offered a sigh of his own.

_A fine way to greet the new day. _

Being confined to sleeping on his back and having Faramir stretched out against him, there was not much movement he could engage in at present, but at least he could bring his opposite arm across his chest and with his hand slowly stroke the soft copper locks. Faramir responded to him immediately by tilting his head slightly and so making Aragorn suspect that he was not as deep in sleep as it appeared.

"_Meleth?" _

"You know I do not speak elvish," a low, drowsy voice responded.

Chuckling, Aragorn gently tugged at one of the strands he was caressing, earning himself a small grunt from his lover. "It is a word you will hear me say often, so you shall have to adapt," he said.

"Hmm," supplied Faramir.

Not wanting to miss out on the sight, Aragorn opened his eyes and turned his head to place a kiss on the sleep-tousled locks. "Did you sleep well?"

Faramir heaved another sigh and moved against the King's body in what appeared to be an attempt to rouse himself. "Are you always this talkative in the mornings?" he grumbled and pulled the covers around him more securely in an endearing contradiction.

"You have woken up by me before, should you not know already?"

"I think I was too nervous before to notice it," Faramir mused. "Or something." If it were possible for a person to dive deeper into a bed whilst not moving, that was exactly what Faramir did.

"You are not nervous now, then?"

"I am tired," the younger man's muffled voice told the pillow.

Aragorn knew he should let the man sleep, but for some inconceivable reason he found that this reaction only encouraged him to push further. His mood had rapidly changed and he was wide awake. In a sort of compromise, he settled for resuming the stroking and doing something he had not done in a very long time: he began to sing softly to himself. Instinctively he chose an old tune he had heard many times in his childhood, a song of the whispering grass and sparkling spring floods.

The minutes passed and floated around them to dissolve into one single long moment, outside of time, but held within the grasp of suspense.

When the song ended, Faramir did something unexpected: he caught Aragorn's hand quickly – as if the covers were only a thin mist he could break through without effort.

Surprised, Aragorn felt his hand dragged into the small space between his own upper arm and Faramir's chest. He could sense the tension in the body beside him, and Faramir's shallow breathing echoed in his ears.

"Are you well," he inquired, not wanting to admit to his worries that he might have done something wrong.

"I have heard you sing once before," whispered Faramir, noticeably moved. "I understand not the words but… they…"

"Touch you," Aragorn finished for him, knowing well of what he spoke. "This song is about the promise of spring, the hope that is nurtured by nature and the beauty of the blooming season."

"We could use some of that," sighed Faramir. "Spring…"

Smiling, Aragorn extracted his hand and by placing it on Faramir's shoulder, he urged him closer still. "Come here, please?"

Pulling himself up, the younger man leaned in closer and shyly brushed his lips against Aragorn's. Instantly afterwards, he drew back and intently searched the face before him. Aragorn had the feeling of being meticulously studied and yet, in this simple action, Faramir ransacked himself equally as much.

"You are awfully energetic in the mornings," Faramir said before he recaptured the lips he had briefly touched before.

Letting his lover guide their kiss, Aragorn relaxed and leisurely returned what he was given. Soft warmth enveloped him and offered him a long-missed sense of belonging. Faramir's fingers came up to toy with his hair, neatly avoiding the irritated facial skin. As the kiss deepened and the slick wetness of moist tongues sparked an increased interest within Aragorn's body, he could not help the moan that escaped him and was swallowed by Faramir's mouth.

Throwing a small portion of caution aside, the Steward's hand abandoned Aragorn's hair and travelled down his chest, pushing aside the covers. Aragorn caught Faramir's lower lip between his teeth and bit carefully, and then soothed the sting with an efficient lap of his tongue. The young man's reaction was too glorious for Aragorn not wanting to do it again. Pressing into the King's side, Faramir displayed none of his characteristic reluctance to show his enthusiasm. His tongue swept far into Aragorn's mouth, devouring him in a way he had not done before. With his free hand, palm flat against the cloth-covered, strong back above him, Aragorn forcefully urged him on, wanting more and more.

When the kiss ended and Faramir rolled off him, an overwhelming sensation of loss flooded through him. Groaning loudly, Aragorn gave air to his frustration.

"I am _so _incredibly tired of this!" he nearly shouted. "I want to be able to _MOVE_!"

He sensed that calming words would come so he quickly continued. Somewhat surprised at his own desperation, he brought both hands up to his Steward's shoulders and gripped him hard. He locked eyes with the slightly shocked ones turned to him. Forcing the words out of his mouth, he asked one of the many questions he dreaded the answer to.

"Tell me honestly – _honestly_ –, will I _ever _be able to satisfy you properly?" He felt his own eyes burn at the intensity of his stare.

Faramir did not speak at once. Despite the fear this inaction stirred in Aragorn, he was grateful; he wanted no half-truths or reassurances that would, sooner rather than later, crumble in the light of reality.

In a low voice, his answer was given. "I know not."

Loosening his grip, Aragorn swallowed. He nodded stiffly against the pillows and fought the wave of sickness that rose in his stomach.

"Truthfully, it is so," continued Faramir slowly. "But then, even if you had been well, I could not have answered in another way. We have not, very often…" He trailed off, allowing a faint blush to complete his sentence for him.

"But there is less of a chance now." Aragorn stated the obvious.

"Yes…" said Faramir hesitantly. "I suppose."

They were silent for a while after that, until Faramir traced the arch of Aragorn's upper lip with the tip of his forefinger and smiled. "Yet, I would like to try." The smile turned into a tiny grimace of a kind the King could not immediately decipher. "I love you."

Uneasiness. Insecurity.

"You shall have everything I can offer."

Faramir bowed his head and Aragorn sealed his promise with a kiss.

oooooooooooo

The morning was long advanced when the inner door opened and a blond head appeared, accompanied by a frown that soon turned into a rolling of eyes.

"I hope the two of you have had a good night's _rest_." The healer took obvious care to emphasise every syllable as he crossed the floor and approached the bed.

"He wakes incredibly early," Faramir complained from where he was now laying on his back, a few respectful inches away from the King. Only Aragorn's hand on his indicated their previous closeness. And maybe the reddish puffiness of his lips.

The healer snorted as he took one look at Aragorn's grin and evidently decided he could wait a little. Instead he made for the windows and drew the curtains back and fastened them by the wall.

"Oh, and you seem to mind…" he muttered.

Faramir tilted his head upwards in an awkward position to catch Aragorn's eye. "I have yet to decide."

Aragorn slapped his hand and grinned even broader. "You seemed not to mind, eventually. When we–"

"Alright!" exclaimed Faramir, cutting him off and mumbling something he could not discern.

The healer returned to the bed and with his hands on his hips, he surveyed his King. Aragorn extinguished his grin and tried his very best to look stately and regal and whatever else Kings were supposed to look. By the grunt that was his reply, he judged he had still some work to do.

"You will be pleased to know," said the healer, "that there are rumours of milder weather abound. Which in turn means that in due time we will be able to send for herbs from Rivendell."

Faramir shot up at this and turned to Aragorn with a new light in his eyes. "That is brilliant!"

Smiling tenderly at him, Aragorn reached out and trailed a finger down his cheek. "Aye, it is."

The healer cleared his throat and both men turned back to him. He was watching them with yet another expression, this one tinted with amusement and expertly crowned with one raised eyebrow. At once, Aragorn's thoughts strayed to many of his most fond memories and the well-loved image of Lord Elrond rose in his mind. Suddenly struck by the long absence of his wise counsel, Aragorn missed his father fervently. What would happen when Elrond finally sailed west, he did not want to think about.

"It has been too long since I last had news of the outside world," he said longingly. "No letters from my father have made it through the snows… And no letters have I sent myself."

"It would have been a futile attempt in any case," stated the healer flatly. "But if these rumours are true, then soon communication shall recommence."

Aragorn nodded softly and his eyes landed once more on the mussed form of his beloved. "Much have happened since I last spoke to him. There is much to tell."

Did he imagine Faramir shrinking back at the idea of telling the founder of Rivendell of their relationship?

Lord Elrond and Gondor's Steward had met only a couple of times, and it had gone well. Not that anyone had expected anything else, but then, Aragorn and Faramir had not been involved at the time. There was but one reason for Elrond to object to this situation, and unfortunately he would be right in doing so.

For it was, as Faramir himself had pointed out, and as Deren had viciously declared, impossible for the King to have any heirs were he to bind with a Man.

And this King was too scared to bring it up, even though he knew he must. He also knew precisely what he must say.

The healer's voice brought his attention back to the current discussion.

"Well, if you two can behave – and I heartily beg you to behave – I shall go and prepare some more of that salve, and then I believe I shall force you to bathe, my lord."

"Please!" Aragorn smiled at him. "You will not have to force me."

"I am sorry for that. I would have enjoyed it."

The healer left after a serving them an intense warning glare that lasted several seconds.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Aragorn knew that his time was up. With a heavy heart he revisited the memories of the past months, lingering long in the beautiful images of a night spent in front of a fire, a morning breaking through when he finally held his love in his arms. He almost felt the small touches, the prolonged caresses in the council hall, draped in the shroud of moderation as not to show the others what was happening to him.

He tasted the apples Faramir had brought to his chambers, the wine from that fateful night when he had claimed the Steward in front of Deren…

And that brought him back to reality.

Faramir had been staring into space, but suddenly spoke up as if he knew what Aragorn intended to do and wanted to steer his mind in another direction.

"I am warming to him," he said. "He first comes off as intimidating, but I see his qualities now. He keeps you grounded." Turning around, he grinned brightly at Aragorn.

Seeing the King's mournful expression, his eyes lost all mirth. Aragorn would have paid greatly to never see that happen again. As it was though, he was about to cause an even greater pain.

"Aragorn? What is the matter?"

His voice had taken on a worried tone and there was a crease on his forehead.

"Faramir, love, we need to speak of something I have long dreaded to bring up."

There. All those words uttered at once.

Faramir turned around completely to face him more easily. In the narrow space on the bed, he managed to fold his long legs underneath him and he nervously brushed back his copper hair. So very young he looked in that moment, and Aragorn felt the sickening weight of age and duties come crashing down upon him.

_He knows._

The realisation hit him hard, even though he was aware of this already.

Taking the last breath for what would seem like years, he spoke.

"We have mentioned this issue before," he began, seeing comprehension dawn on his lover, making it harder still. "I would give anything for it _not _to be an issue, but it is beyond any power that I know to make it so."

He swallowed and reached for Faramir's hand that lay completely still upon the covers. Numbly he grasped it but felt no more secure in doing so.

"The heritage of Númenor… No, this throne that is mine… I have – I must fulfil my duties, Faramir. I am the last heir of Elendil, it was never my highest dream…" He made no sense, but he would have gone on for much longer nonetheless, if Faramir had not stopped him.

"I know, Aragorn," he said quietly, his gaze falling. "Your bloodline must continue. You need an heir, preferably more than one. Heirs I cannot give you."

"Yes," breathed Aragorn, all light fading from his heart. "No," he added, hating to agree.

A dark silence fell heavily between them, sucking the very breath from Aragorn's lungs and rasping at his throat with sharp claws.

"I know this…" Faramir mumbled. "Still, I ignored it, thinking… we could somehow escape it."

His hand felt like a dead weight in Aragorn's grasp. "I will hold true to my promise: I shall give you everything I can offer."

The pain and confusion in Faramir's face as he looked up was unbearable. "How can that be?"

It hurt to breathe, to prepare for what he would say next. If this was only half of the reaction that was to come, how would he ever manage? How would _they _manage?

But Faramir continued. "How can that be, Aragorn? You can never bind with me. I no longer doubt your love, but look where that takes me: to the edge of despair!"

His words picked up speed and his cheeks flushed. As Aragorn's heart wrenched, the first tears glistened in his lover's eyes.

"We can still bind!" he cried out before he could check his words.

"_How can that be?!" _Faramir stared at him desperately, his shoulders rising and falling quickly as he breathed harshly. "Today I truly imagined that some day we could bind, or marry, or whatever way you would deem appropriate – yes, I let my heart override my thoughts, this one day… But see?! It is NOT TO BE!"

"Faramir!" Heedless of any injuries on his body screaming for mercy, he lunged forward and caught the trembling man in a fierce embrace.

Fervently running his hands up and down his back, soothing and calming, he discovered his own cheeks were wet as well. He buried his face in Faramir's hair, preventing his lover from breaking free.

"We can do all of that. We can bind or marry or join in any way you like."

Shaking in his arms, Faramir shook his head violently, threatening to hurt Aragorn but not caring anymore – not caring about anything.

"_You need heirs_," he spat out, making it sound like a curse.

"I do," Aragorn acquiesced, trying to offer some strength through the tears that were now flowing freely from his eyes. "But listen to me, please listen…"

In that moment the inner door opened and the healer was about to step through. One stern look from his King, and he retreated and closed the door in front of him again.

"Listen to me, love, listen to me… There is one solution."

The bitterness dripped from Faramir's voice as he rejected any solutions. "There is none, Aragorn. Do not toy with me."

Continuing to stroke his back, not so much because it worked to calm Faramir down as it gave his hands an occupation, he finally said it. "I am not, dearest, I promise you I am not. There is one solution. Nor you, nor I will like it, but it is the only one."

He let the man in his arms catch his breath before he went on, desiring all of his attention. Faramir was silent.

"You will be my love, my mate, my consort, my spouse, anything that you wish, for I wish the same. But my children will have to be conceived with another. It will be a woman I will never love, but someone who can ensure that my line continues. Never willingly will I share our bed with anyone but you, but it is our sole option."

Closing his eyes in this hour of doom, he added what he had whispered the night before.

"_Goheno nin."_

Time passed. It was as if night had come in the middle of the day. The light seemed dimmed around them and the air carried no sounds; there was naught but breathing, strained at first and the calmer. Eventually it evened out and became soft. Aragorn cried quietly, wetting Faramir's hair and his tunic. His body ached and ever muscle frantically begged him to lie back down. His skin stung from the salt of his tears, but none of this mattered.

He cradled the lithe body in his arms as if Faramir were a fallen warrior and they were on a battlefield in the land of the dead. All strength had fled his beloved who would have fallen if he had not held him upright. When words finally formed on his tongue, Aragorn repeated them over and over again, as tenderly as was humanly possible.

"I love you, I love you… I love you so very dearly."

Floating by, the minutes extended into eternity. A half-hour may have passed, or maybe not, but finally the slumped form stirred as if it awakened after a long sleep. Drained, Aragorn watched as Faramir broke free from his embrace and slowly, and with great effort, fixed his gaze on him.

He looked utterly exhausted when he licked his lips. A mist had blocked out the shimmer of his eyes and it made Aragorn think of sunken lakes, uninhabited by any living creatures.

But there was a streak of determination in his features and his jaw was set. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of all emotion save for one: resolve.

"I doubt not that you will choose wisely when you search for the mother of you children, my lord."

Aragorn held his breath as the world closed in on him.

"But no matter how good a woman she is, she will never share our bed."

Hardly daring to let these words sink in, he still refused to breathe.

There was no smile on Faramir's face, but the fog lifted a little and a part of it fled from his eyes.

"Never shall she have more of you than absolutely necessary. Promise me this."

And then breathing became so very important. Nearly exhaling and inhaling at the same time, Aragorn threw his arms around Faramir for a second time that day, promising and promising and promising.

"Never, love, never. I am yours. _Yours_, do you hear me?"

Falling backwards as his body conquered his stubborn mind and his fighting heart, he brought Faramir with him and together they tumbled down onto the mattress. He clung to the body he held as Faramir clutched him tightly.

"I am yours, forever yours."

Aragorn repeated these words into this night of day until his throat was sore and he wondered if the dawning of spring was ever to arrive.

**tbc**

**You will remember that "Goheno nin" is Sindarin for "Forgive me".**

**Note: Okay, don't kill me. I don't mean to destroy everything, but those of you who have read "Now" know that this is my way of solving the male/male-lover-means-no-children-problem. And whatever one might think about it, the bloodline **_**is **_**important – or Aragorn would never have been needed for Gondor's throne in the first place and could have kept on living as Estel in Rivendell. I'm presuming here, but I think our ideas got a little influenced by mr Mortensen's (brilliant) portrayal of Aragorn in the movies. That version of Aragorn displays much more reluctance and he is more Strider than Elessar. When reading the books I'm always surprised at the amount of willingness to become King that Aragorn actually shows. In several places Tolkien writes that he appears kingly and majestic – long before he even sets foot in Gondor during the war. He doesn't hesitate to call himself the heir of Elendil either. Therefore, I assume that he would want to see his bloodline continue. Or, again, he could have simply have renounced his heritage. Remember that there have been three joinings of all the bloodlines of the Eldar and Men throughout the history of Middle-earth: first, Lúthien and Beren, second Elrond and Celebrían, and third Aragorn and Arwen. And all of these have been produced significant results. However, I don't believe that our Elessar would contradict the wishes of his own heart.**

**In other words: tricky, tricky... Simultaneously we have this relationship between Aragorn and Faramir going so what to do? (You may have noticed now that we have strayed from the canon talk…) I'm no fan of mpreg stories and in other ways too, I want to stay realistic. I'm hoping that, in time, you'll forgive me. Cookies to all of you if you do!**


	22. Choosing

**Lately I have been very inspired and have taken the time to nearly finish this story. What remains are three chapters, including this one, and one epilogue (yes, we will only have one of those, I think). All of this will be posted with about a week in between. Is that a good deal? **

**Chapter 22 – Choosing**

Two days passed, during which Faramir – when he came back from his duties – said the palace was unnaturally quiet. Reportedly there was a tension in the air and when people spoke they did so in whispers more often than not. It had much to do with Deren still being locked away and awaiting his sentence, but it probably had equally as much to do with the rumours concerning the King and his Steward that Faramir finally had admitted swept through the palace like an invisible torrent .

Aragorn was regaining his strength and had even received a few approving nods from the healer. He slept much and his skin benefited from it as it needed undisturbed rest to heal properly. Still, what was most important to him was how Faramir acted around him; contrary to the rest of the palace, in the healing chamber there was not so much tension as there was hesitancy.

What had originally been intended as loving caresses turned into fumbling touches as at least one out two minds wavered and waited too long. When they both faltered, the result was disastrous. Three full cups of tea had so far fallen to the floor, causing the healer to mutter long sequences about 'healed skin being scorched and injured all over again' and 'impossible patients'. In the end, he had had enough and ordered Faramir out of the room if he had no 'proper business there'.

Aragorn sensed the great void that had appeared in their lives, a void desperately needing to be filled. After Faramir had accepted the fact that the King would have to sire heirs with another, and after he had set his own terms – terms that Aragorn would readily agree to every day of his life – a world of possibilities had opened up to them. Yet, neither of them seemed entirely sure on how to proceed. Faramir had slept in his own chamber, leaving Aragorn to heal, and the King would not dream of begging anything else of him. Not now.

Behind the heavy clouds, the winter sun was slanting towards the western horizon. The inner door opened and the healer stepped across the threshold. He fixed Aragorn with an intense gaze, seemingly making up his mind about something. After a few moments, he put his hands on his hips.

"So, my lord. Where will you have your supper?"

Aragorn stared at him in complete disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

The healer made a face. "I forgive you. I asked you where you will take your supper?"

"You are letting me out of here?"

"For a couple of hours."

A thousand ideas at once rushed into his head, but before he had the time to put them in any order, the healer continued.

"I have seen the two of you these past days… Tragic." He shook his head. "To say the least. I recommend you do something about it."

Nodding numbly, Aragorn could not agree more.

"Oh, and you just might wish to tackle the rumours while you are at it," the healer suggested.

Going through them, one idea stood out more than the others, and Aragorn smiled.

**-**oooo**-**

The dining hall had been scrupulously altered to accommodate all of his needs and desires. The great table had been pushed far aside and all of the chairs were lined up against one wall. Instead of them, two large, cushioned armchairs were found by the fire-place where also stood a low table already dressed. The scene resembled the one in the antechamber where he had spent almost the entire night with Faramir, except that this one was grander and far more public.

If one took a closer look, it was immediately obvious that it had not been necessary at all to push the customary furniture so far away, but Aragorn had specifically ordered this to be done. He could not say if making a point had ever been more important to him, ignoring what he had done during his mission to extinguish Sauron.

The slow walk to the dining hall had truly been dreadful. It was the first time he was on his feet since after the attack and his body cursed him for even attempting to stand, much less walk. Heavily he had leaned on the two summoned guards, allowing them to carry most of his weight.

"It is good for you," the healer had nodded contentedly as he stumbled down the hallway. "In any case you shall have to start walking if you do not wish to be confined to a bed for eternity."

Aragorn had grid his teeth and kept on moving.

But now that he had finally arrived, he was glad he had done it. The fire and the various candles and torches cast a flaming glow about the room, bathing it in warm oranges and reds. The shadowed corners implied an intimacy that was most desired in the King's heart. The healer had allowed him to drink one or two glasses of wine ('but no more') and had recommended him to eat as much as possible as it would 'give him the strength to walk back to the healing chamber'. Aragorn suspected he would gladly have eaten a full hobbit breakfast – and the Second one – if that could in any way help him.

Pulling the blanket he had sent for earlier closer around him, he leaned back in the chair, saving that well-needed strength for whatever came next. If it came.

He had sent a message with the servants, summoning Faramir to supper in here, but not permitting them to relay any of what was currently going on in the dining hall. He sighed unwillingly, for some reason uncertain that the Steward would even show up. Maybe it was only he who had interpreted the hesitancy between them as hesitancy, while Faramir was feeling less and less inclined to share his time with him?

Pondering was useless, he knew that, but it was impossible to refrain from it.

Someone came to stir the fire and Aragorn could not help himself. "Did you find the Steward?" he inquired.

The girl bowed briskly. "It was not I who was entrusted with the message, but I have heard that he means to come here."

"I see," said Aragorn, silently cursing his nervousness and the fact that news seemed to travel more quickly among the servants than to him.

"He should be here shortly," the girl added and then bowed once more and left.

"Great," muttered Aragorn after her.

Soon though, anxiety surpassed his other feelings as his eyes fixed themselves upon the doorway and refused to let it go. The hallway lay in shade and it gave him the feeling of being separated from the rest of the world. This was all there was: the dimly lit dining hall, floating freely in the space between the cold winter raging outside, and the darkness opposite it. The darkness that led to wherever Faramir was.

When his eyes finally caught a small movement by the door, Aragorn was not sure what he was seeing; it might be a ghostly vision for all he knew. As it turned out, it was yet another servant, bringing a tray of warm bread. Sinking further into his chair, he watched the servant leave and then he closed his eyes.

He had been drifting in an imageless mist for some time when a low voice broke through his doze.

"Aragorn?"

Slowly opening his eyes, he immediately spotted the outline of Faramir hovering by the door.

"Aragorn?" he called out again, this time a bit louder.

Relief flooded through him as he pulled himself upright to the fervent complaints of his muscles.

"I am sorry, I drifted off."

Faramir warily walked across the floor with a questioning look about him, and not a small amount of concern.

"Are you well? Aragorn, what is this?" he asked when he was finally standing near the King's chair.

Still nervous, Aragorn searched his face. "Do you approve of it?"

"Approve?" echoed Faramir. "You are out of bed and that can only mean you walked here by yourself… Does the healer know?"

Before he could move away, Aragorn reached out and grasped his hand. "Yes, he knows. Do not worry so. Does it please you?"

Faramir blinked at him, but he did not pull away. "Is that a confession, Aragorn? Did you walk here by yourself?"

"I had help," Aragorn admitted. "But, yes, I was on my very own feet."

Suddenly smiling, Faramir sunk to his knees. "That is good news," he said. "As long as it was not a foolish idea of yours that you carried out without asking permission?"

"Oh, believe me, he knows. He kept on encouraging me… it was brilliant." Aragorn heard himself the grumpiness in his tone, but it only served to widen Faramir's smile and so in the end he was happy.

"I am sorry I missed it." Faramir rose to his feet and took in the scene before him. "Now, what _is _all of this?"

"I thought we needed some time together, outside the healing chamber," explained Aragorn, once more feeling the cold pads of anxiety's feet sneak across his chest.

"And by that you mean in plain sight," surmised Faramir correctly.

"Yes."

Nodding slowly, the Steward pulled his hand free and circled the back of Aragorn's chair. As if he were treading upon glass, he carefully lowered himself into the armchair that was intended for him. When he offered it, his smile was weak.

"I do agree with you, Aragorn, but I am nervous." His gaze fell and he drew a long breath. "If we do this… well, then we set things in motion, do we not?"

"We do," said Aragorn quietly, fearful of scaring him away. "If you choose to do this, then it all begins."

Faramir raised his eyes to meet him. "I am truly scared, Aragorn."

"Would you believe me if I said I am so too?"

It took a lot of strength not to recapture the younger man's hand, but Aragorn could clearly see the fright in his eyes and he would not force him. This was Faramir's decision and Aragorn would never be completely happy if he knew he had somehow influenced the choice to be made, no matter if it was well-intended and only carried out in the name of a vain hope for a love-filled future.

Faramir appeared not to have heard, or he simply did not answer. He sat staring into the fire for long moments.

"Two choices," he said at last. "Two very different paths may I walk in this life." He did not take his eyes from the flames that greedily licked at the wood. "I could choose to deny this and live alone – for alone I would live. I could never love someone as I love you." His voice was steady but low, as if he were speaking to himself rather than to the very person he was addressing. "I would see you every day, for I would not be able to leave, and it would pain my heart greatly to know that you were beyond my reach. Still, it would be typical of me."

Aragorn swallowed and fought the urge to speak, to assure him that he would never be turned away. He held his tongue, though.

"Or I could choose this," continued Faramir, nodding at the table before him, but clearly indicating much more than just the wine and the bread. "I could choose to live by your side as your lover… maybe even as your spouse." There was a faint rising of colour in his cheeks at the words. "Yet it would pain me too, for at times you would have to leave me for another's embrace." He finally shifted his gaze to Aragorn. "I can only hope that those moments will be scarce and that your love will not diminish because of them. For my love for you could never lessen."

He knew not if he was allowed to speak and so he stayed silent. It proved to be the right thing, for Faramir once more drew his eyes back to the fire.

"And this is the hour in which the choice is to be made," he said, a touch of despair to his voice. "I thought, during the War, that that was the time when the most important choices of my life were to be made. I chose not to take the Ring from Frodo… I chose to fight for Osgiliath, in vain as it turned out, I even chose between life and death for myself… and yet, these choices seem so simple to me right now."

_You will never know how happy I am that you chose to live…_

"So what do I do, Aragorn? Both paths will bring me pain." Then, another smile ghosted across his fire lit face. "But I do believe that one of these would bring me greater joy than anything else ever could." He turned to face Aragorn fully. "So, I choose you, and the love you have promised me."

Feeling every tense muscle in his body finally relaxing, and letting out a long breath, Aragorn slumped back into his chair.

"You have it," he whispered. "I give you all my love, for eternity."

"Save some for your family and friends," said Faramir, the smile continuously growing in his features. He gave his chair a push and aligned it with Aragorn's. "Other than that, I accept your offer."

"Done," Aragorn smiled. "Done."

"Now you may kiss me," said Faramir with a teasing light in his eyes.

"Is that so? Remember I am an old, weary man who have not used his feet until this evening for many a day."

Faramir snorted. "Since when do you need your feet to kiss me?"

"True," Aragorn agreed and leaned forwards, capturing the mouth before him and giving Faramir the most tentative kiss he could muster.

Faramir pulled him closer still, and held him securely in his arms, surrounding him with a type of warmth that the fire had no chance of bringing any living creature. The Steward's lips were soft upon his, and he gently brushed against them as he hoped to insert faith and trust in the future in the mind and body of his beloved.

When they drew apart, Faramir's expressive eyes conveyed at least some of this, and Aragorn sent a short but grateful prayer to the Valar.

"So how does one go about this properly," Faramir asked as he rested his head on the King's shoulder.

"Do not expect an intelligent answer," said Aragorn. "I have never done this before." He eyed the table before them. "I was ordered to eat well…"

Chuckling, Faramir's head bounced slightly where it lay. "Then I think we should start there," he decided and abruptly rose from his seat. "Let me see if I can find one of the servants."

However, as soon as he stood and with a searching gaze surveyed the room, two servants stepped out from the shadows and immediately set to work. Somewhat baffled, Faramir sank back down. "No wonder the place swarms with rumours," he said in a wondrous tone.

"Which reminds me," said Aragorn, pulling him close once more. "I was also ordered to tackle the very rumours that you speak of."

"And here I was under the impression that your feet were too tired," Faramir teased him but let himself be drawn into an embrace that was just a bit awkward as they were in different chairs.

Acknowledging the approaching servants with a nod, Aragorn only kissed the top of his head. In silence they watched as a steaming stew was placed before them and the bread was taken away and then brought back, reheated. When they seemingly were alone again, Faramir shook his head against Aragorn's chest.

"I confess I am still nervous."

"It will be fine. I am absolutely certain of it," Aragorn told him, daring to believe his own words.

When he, an hour later, was back in his bed in the healing chamber, he still believed them. And he fell asleep to the beautiful sound of Faramir's voice still ringing in his ears, as he chose love and not loneliness for them both.

-oooo-

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and so matched Aragorn's mood perfectly. If he for a minute or two pretended that he could not feel his complaining legs, he felt more than ready to rise from his bed and seek out Faramir and proceed with his life. Utterly weary of staying in bed for so long, the King of Gondor proclaimed himself fit to leave the healing chamber. Or he would have done so, had there been anyone around to listen.

Therefore, he was happy when the door opened and revealed a shape blocking out the soft light floating about in the corridor outside.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such an early hour," said a voice Aragorn had not expected and which quite efficiently killed his hopes of seeing Faramir. "May I enter?"

"Please." Aragorn made a wide gesture with his hand, indicating the substantial lack of another presence in the chamber.

With a nod, the Elder stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "My sincerest wishes for your swift recovery, my lord."

"Thank you," said Aragorn and motioned towards a chair. "Will you take a seat?"

"Gratefully." Behind the white beard, the Elder flashed a wry smile. "I do not like to admit to it, but I am not as young as I once was."

His form was indeed stooped and the robes of light grey that fell from his shoulders only served to enlighten the effect that his long beard had. With a sigh he lowered himself to sit. "My back betrays me," he said mournfully, shaking his head. "In the mornings, when I am rested, it lures me into thinking I could walk an entire circle around the City, but as soon as I have broken my fast I realise it is not so."

"Old age is the curse of Men," said Aragorn.

The Elder surveyed him with a curious eye. "Would you then prefer to live forever, my lord?"

More times than he could count had Aragorn considered this. "I was brought up among the Elves. During my first innocent years I believed that too was my fate. Upon realising I was mortal I unreservedly mourned for my destiny, not understanding how one could discover all there was to life in such a limited time."

"And yet, we seem to find a path on which we tread through life."

Smiling, Aragorn could only agree. "We do. By the Lady's grace, indeed we do."

The inquisitive light did not leave the eyes of the Elder but no subject that was too private to be breeched was brought up. Instead, Aragorn's guest brought forth a parchment already partially covered in writing.

"My lord, we have yet to consider what to do with Deren." He handed over the parchment to Aragorn. "I have already noted his crimes and the dates when they were carried out. It is all proper procedure of course, but you will see that I have gone into detail of an unusual kind. As these are grievous crimes indeed, I thought it best to be precise."

Aragorn read through the paragraphs, realising for the first time how close he had been to entering the Halls. He was not used to considering his own existence as something incredibly vital, having never truly understood the significance of his birth and the importance of his well-being. But now, as the neatly penned words before his eyes hinted at possible disaster if the King of Men – who was he – had perished at the hands of a cruel mind and the icy fingers of winter, understanding began to creep into his mind.

It made him long for someone to hold on to as he still had trouble seeing how he was all of this. It even made him wish for a dose of the healer's sarcastic humour, and he knew then that the situation was bad.

He let the parchment drop to a rest on top of the covers. "So what do we do?"

The Elder ran a thoughtful hand along his beard. "Behead him?"

Aragorn was relieved to see the disarming glimmer in his eye. "No, I will not do that. Too much blood has already flowed at my feet."

His guest leaned back in his chair and appeared to examine the windows and the world outside. Silence stretched out between them as the sun – a rare sight this winter – with coy rays embraced the light blue sky.

When the inner door opened and the healer appeared, it took them both by surprise. Even the healer himself seemed slightly taken aback for he blinked an extra time before he turned his gaze to the King.

"It is alright," Aragorn assured him. "You do not disturb us."

"I would never dream of disturbing you, my lord. Only once in a while when you seem to forget the importance of resting." He crossed the floor and critically eyed Aragorn's facial skin. "These past days have done you good, though. I suppose I should congratulate you upon – dare I hope? – finally having discovered the wisdom of my words."

Aragorn was about to please him further by muttering, but the Elder broke his unmoving stance and straightened as best he could. "May ask you a question?"

The healer inclined his head.

"Would you say that the attack on the King was, in itself, enough to have killed him, or did the cold outside do most of the work?"

The healer's answer was delivered at once. "No, the attack would not have been fatal had it taken place indoors. Even so, by dragging the King _outdoors_, the attacker stated his intention plainly. It is clear to me that he did not have the nerve to strike him dead himself, but hoped that the weather would solve his problem. Ruthless and calculating, but cowardly."

"You would have preferred it if Deren had killed me instead?" grumbled Aragorn.

The healer's smile was almost warm. "Not at all! It has been a great joy tending to you, my lord." He winked unsettlingly. "It has been most interesting."

The Elder was rereading the parchment he had fetched from the covers. "I shall make a new copy and then return to hear your verdict."

He took his leave and when the door had closed behind him, Aragorn let his head fall back upon the pillows. "What shall I do with him?" He worded his thoughts out loud, hoping that maybe the action would bring him some clarity.

"Judging by the fresh rumours circulating, I was under the impression that you had heeded my advice yestereve?"

Suddenly feeling years younger, Aragorn made a face and glared. "I meant not Faramir, but Deren. I will not have his shadow casting its gloom over Minas Tirith any longer."

"Then send him away." The healer shrugged and began sorting through the herbs he had brought, spreading them upon a clean cloth that he made sure covered the surface of the bed table.

"Send him away," Aragorn echoed him thoughtfully. Then he drew himself upright. "What is this about 'fresh rumours'?"

"Ah," smiled the healer. "It is now common knowledge that the King and the Steward of Gondor have a problem with chairs. They do not seem to understand that two separate chairs never can be transformed into a single one, no matter how hard they try."

Groaning loudly, Aragorn sank back. But he could not hinder the small smile that insisted on growing upon his lips.

**tbc**

**Note: I was asked the question before, and I thought I'd answer it publicly as well. Both Elves and Men go to Mandos after their death. Whereas the Elves await their probable rebirth in Aman (the Undying Lands), Men await their journey to a mysterious land that even the Valar do not know anything about. Only Ilúvatar himself fully knows the fate of Men. **


	23. Finalising

**Here is my Christmas present for you: the tying up of some loose ends. And the dealing with other important matters. **

**Chapter 23 – Finalising**

The pale blue of the morning sky had deepened into a brilliant cerulean shade. There were no clouds hindering the sun from sending her light forth and a stray ray or two even wound their way into the healing chamber to gently caress the bed in which Aragorn had recently awakened. As he was rather high up in the former citadel, the snow covering the ground could be sighted if he gazed far enough. It glittered and sparkled enthusiastically in the sunlight, making no effort to hide its vanity. It all looked to him very innocent and in this moment it was hard to believe that the same snow to some had proved a deathly threat. Yet, Aragorn did not avert his eyes, for the sight was beautiful.

It was in that second it happened. He was so unprepared for it that for many minutes afterwards he could do naught but stare. The sun shone just as before and the sky was equally blue, but Aragorn knew that something had shifted. He could feel it in his heart and in his soul – even his weary bones felt lighter.

From the layer of ice that fiercely gripped the arched window-frame, a single, glistening drop of water fell.

And that was all.

Aragorn stared nonetheless.

Then his eyes _were _averted because the door opened and revealed a Steward almost unrecognisable beneath layer upon layer of thick clothing. Greatly amused – and very pleased – Aragorn watched as Faramir stamped his boots against the floor, creating small mounds of soggy snow upon it. He watched as the heavy coat was removed and shaken, sending small showers of icy cold water flying about the room. The woollen tunic that clung to Faramir's body in a very attractive way was left in peace but the tousled copper locks received not this gentle treatment. Thick gloves were shed and a bare hand raked through the tresses over and over again, managing only to mess them up further. Finally, the Steward dumped his heap of clothes in a chair and ran a hand over his jaw as if he had forgotten to shave and now remembered it.

"Well," said Aragorn, "good day to you too."

Faramir's eyes gained some focus and he smiled. "Aragorn!"

"Yes?"

"How are you?"

"Good?" Aragorn eyed him suspiciously. "You seem to be in a bright mood."

Faramir squared his shoulders which gave the impression that he was about to deliver some most important news. "I am indeed!" He took one last look at his dripping garments and then made his way over to where Aragorn was lying. "The snow – is melting!"

Aragorn countered his smile with one of his own. "I know."

"You know?" Faramir looked slightly disappointed. "Here I thought I would be the first one to deliver the news to you."

"You were," Aragorn assured him. "But I do have eyes of my own, and I did happen to see the ice on the window-frames beginning to melt."

Sending a glare towards the windows, Faramir sighed. "Oh, well. I have no influence over your eyes."

"Perhaps not," agreed Aragorn and snaked an arm around the younger man's lower back. "But over many other things, I assure you." Urging him to bend down with some circling motions of his palm he had understood that Faramir liked, he smiled devilishly. As his lover's face came closer, he lowered his voice. "We can start this over if you want? And I will pretend that I never saw that drop of water…"

Faramir placed his hands on the bed to support his weight. "It looks to me as if right now you have other plans." His lips danced just out of reach for Aragorn's mouth if he did not move.

"Only if you agree."

"I would never disagree with you."

"Excellent," murmured Aragorn before he felt Faramir's mouth descending upon his own and they shared a kiss that seemed long overdue.

When he pulled back and straightened, there was a content and lazy smile in Faramir's features. "So, he said as Aragorn made room for him on the bed and he settled down. "When will you be released from this room permanently?"

Aragorn arched an eyebrow. "Plans, _meleth_?"

"Oh, never!" Faramir attempted once more to get his hair under control. "I simply mean that Gondor has not seen its King for too long."

"Yes, it is so…" He traced the outer seam of Faramir's breeches with the tip of his forefinger. "There is one issue that has to be handled before this winter ends, though."

Faramir nodded slowly and his eyes lost some of their initial joy. "Deren."

"I know not what to do with him," Aragorn said honestly, secretly wishing that it was someone else's choice to make.

"I care not." Faramir rose from the bed and wandered over to the window. His back was turned to the bed but no position could hide the sternness in his voice. "If you had not been found, you would be dead by now, Aragorn."

"If you had not found me," he said gently.

"It does not matter, really."

Aragorn offered Faramir's back a weak smile. "It matters to me."

The wood-fire gave a crackling noise of triumph as it succeeded in breaking a piece of wood in two. Another ray of sunlight conquered the window-glass and set the reddish tinge of Faramir's hair aflame.

A vision came suddenly to Aragorn, and as impossible and unattainable as he knew it to be, it still gave him some measure of comfort. He saw blooming fruit trees and green grass, and could nearly smell the scent of early summer upon the breeze. And then, beyond some patches of small, white flowers he saw children running, their hair, tinted with copper, flowing freely in the wind and laughter filling the air.

As the vision faded, he sighed. "Come here, love?" He held out a hand for Faramir to take.

Slowly, the Steward turned towards him. There was a crease on his forehead and that still easily-awakened pain shone in his eyes. He grasped Aragorn's hand hesitantly and allowed himself to be pulled closer.

"You do believe, do you not Aragorn – when I tell you that nothing, _nothing_, ever happened between Deren and me?"

"I believe you."

"No," Faramir shook his head vigorously. "I mean, truly _believe_. For it is the truth, I swear to you!"

For some incomprehensible reason, Aragorn felt laughter welling up inside and he fought hard to repress it, seeing as Faramir was not at all sharing his mood. "I do believe you, my love, truly I do."

"I need you to know for certain!" Faramir refused to let the subject go. "I could never live with myself if I suspected you to be unsure. I would never betray you, Aragorn."

"I know that, please do not torment yourself so…" He took a firmer grip on Faramir's hand and brought it up to press against his chest. "This heart is yours to keep."

"But how could I lay claim on your heart if I did not know for sure –"

"Faramir!" Aragorn cut him off rather harshly.

The Steward clamped his mouth shut and blanched visibly.

"Faramir," repeated Aragorn in a softer voice. Then he could no longer hide his smile. "Will you marry me?"

The younger man's eyes widened and then they blinked repeatedly, giving him the appearance of a child that saw the wonders of the world for the first time. His chest stilled as if he temporarily gave up breathing to focus as much of his energy as possible on the question that hung in the air before them. His lips were pale when he parted them to let out a last breath.

"Aragorn, I love you so very much."

His voice was no more than a whisper when it joined the air in the room.

"And I love you, dearest one." The King smiled up at him still, putting all his feelings of affection into that smile.

"No, I mean I love you so very, very much," breathed Faramir with eyes still wide and only letting a small amount of air pass through his lungs.

"Yes, I have understood that you wish to make yourself crystal clear today." Aragorn drew circles with his thumb upon the soft skin on Faramir's hand. "Now, will you keep me in this state of insecurity for much longer, or will you give me an answer?"

A faint, shy smile crossed Faramir's lips and a warm colour replaced the whiteness that previously had tinted his cheeks. "Yes."

"Yes? Yes, you will give me an answer or yes, you will marry me?"

Blushing furiously by now but matching it with a growing grin, Faramir nodded. "Yes, and yes."

Loosing all interest in keeping up a mature and respectable façade, Aragorn reached up for his lover and pulled him down. Faramir willingly complied and his feet left their position by the bed to ensure that he was able to stretch out fully beside Aragorn.

Hugging him close, the King felt his heart burst into a thousand pieces, only to be immediately healed and crafted into a shining orb of the heavens.

"Truly yes?" he whispered into the mess of hair that shielded Faramir's face from view.

A strong arm encircled his waist and a muffled voice sent buzzing vibrations along his cloth-covered skin. "Truly yes."

Faramir lifted his head and Aragorn helped to brush away the snow-dampened hair. "I will marry you," he whispered as he watched the older man reverently.

Aragorn grinned wildly, knowing he must look insane. "You make me so happy, _meleth nin_. May I kiss you now?"

A playful frown seized Faramir's brow. "When may you not?"

"It will be our first kiss as betrothed," Aragorn said, cupping his cheek with one hand.

"You had better make it good, then," smiled his love.

-oooo-

When the inner door to the healing chamber opened an hour later, Aragorn was running his hands along Faramir's back and humming low. The Steward was resting his head on Aragorn's shoulder and still had his arm clasped around his waist. He breathed softly, his warm breath wafting over the older man's chest.

"And why am I not surprised?"

The healer was carrying a package wrapped in linen cloth in one hand and a piece of rolled up parchment in the other. Aragorn felt the grin from earlier present itself on his face again. Faramir stirred reluctantly where he lay but did not pull away, maybe partially because Aragorn made sure his hand kept up its movements.

"Is all well?" inquired Aragorn, not knowing exactly what he meant but needing to find something to say.

His reply consisted of two raised eyebrows and a shake of a blond head. "Whatever you mean by it, my lord, I assure you that all is under control."

"Good," grinned Aragorn as he wondered if his treacherous sanity was silently leaving his mind.

"Indeed. And I trust all is well in here?" The healer sent Faramir's slim form a glance and the corners of his lips turned upwards in a wry smile.

"It could not be better!" the King assured him. "It could not be better."

"Will you tell me what it is that makes me suspect I have given you too high a dose of the healing herbs?"

Aragorn turned his head and pressed a kiss into Faramir's hair. "Love? Are you awake?"

A soft sigh escaped the Steward and he turned his face upwards without opening his eyes. "Mhm?"

As the healer dropped his burden on a tabletop and then went to stir the fire, Aragorn watched Faramir rouse himself. Moving like a cat, his lover stretched his limbs one by one and then lifted his head to shake it slightly. He remained pressed against Aragorn's body as he let his eyes slowly adjust to the light in the room. The fluid motions combined with the attractive sleep-tousled features sent an inspiring spark through the King's stomach. Knowing full well this was not the optimal opportunity to act upon his newborn ideas, Aragorn chastened himself and tried to push all such thoughts to the back of his head.

"Aragorn?"

Faramir watched him uncertainly. "I did not dream, did I? That you asked..?" He lost his words to the surrounding world.

"I know not what you dreamt," said Aragorn quietly, trailing a finger along his jaw line. "But I did ask you to marry me… and I believe you agreed to it."

Looking relieved, Faramir twisted his head and quickly planted a kiss on Aragorn's finger. "All is well then."

Laughing low, the King nodded towards the healer. "Shall we tell him?"

Faramir drew a long breath and adjusted his position on the bed to not weigh down so heavily on Aragorn. "Well, I suppose that everyone will know soon anyway." A small smile found its way to his lips. "It begins now, does it not?"

Aragorn smiled. "It truly does."

A clatter of iron against stone ended their conversation efficiently. "I am so sorry," offered the healer as he replaced the spike he used to stir the wood with against the wall. "I hope I did not interrupt anything important. But then, I suspect it is not matters of state you are discussing so intimately."

Faramir pulled himself upright and adjusted the tunic he wore. Aragorn let his hand fall to rest on the warm covers his lover had left behind.

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"Oh, really?" said the healer as he returned to the table and began unwrapping the package he had brought with him.

"Indeed," smiled Aragorn. "I have asked Faramir to join with me in marriage and he has accepted."

He heard Faramir work hard on keeping his breath even as the healer turned towards them, obviously startled. His initial look of surprise, however, was soon replaced by an expression of respect.

"Well, my lord, I am impressed. For many long – and I daresay tedious – moments, I believed that you would never work up the courage to do it, but I am glad to see that I was wrong. Congratulations to you both." Then suddenly he laughed. "You shall have to delve deep into the records to find a male ruler of Gondor who married another man. I am afraid that you shall have to devote some time to redesigning the ceremony."

Aragorn waved a hand in a careless gesture. "I shall devote as much time as is necessary."

Faramir leaned closer to him and sent him a nervous glance. "I need no extravagant ceremony, Aragorn. Honestly, you need not do that for me."

"Oh, no," said the healer brightly as he approached the bed, making no attempt to pretend he had not overheard the Steward. "I think you _should_ have an extravagant ceremony. It would do Gondor good."

Aragorn smiled what he hoped was a reassuring and calming smile. "Maybe we could have a simpler ceremony but an extraordinary celebration? And you can choose to attend that one for as long as you please."

His young lover nodded and looked somewhat comforted. He even caught Aragorn's hand and grasped it firmly.

"Now then," said the healer and claimed their attention, "I will offer you your first wedding gift! Unfortunately I am afraid at least one of you might not welcome it, but I beg you to regard it with as kind eyes as possible."

Faramir let go of his hand and changed his position so that he faced the healer fully. Narrowing his eyes, Aragorn watched his movements guardedly. From the linen package, the healer extracted a bunch of something the King had hoped to never lay eyes upon again.

With another bright smile the healer held out his hand and presented a pile of all too well-known, dark and crumpled leaves.

Aragorn's heartfelt groan mingled with Faramir's laughter.

"Ah, the dear leaves!" Faramir exclaimed when he had stopped laughing. "I never though I would see them again."

"It is not you who must endure them," muttered Aragorn as he pointedly refused to touch the pile and hiding his hands beneath the covers even though he knew it was childish.

"I take it you will have separate bedrooms then," the healer winked and returned the leaves to their linen wrapping. "Actually, I would like it if someone kept an eye on the King and made sure he uses them as intended. And, my lord, I trust you prefer the Steward here, rather then myself sharing your bed?"

Faramir shifted on the covers and Aragorn grumbled.

"Only until I receive a delivery from Rivendell," continued the healer. "Maybe longer if you do not behave."

Then finally understanding caught up with him and Aragorn shook off the displeasure at being reacquainted with the leaves.

"Does this mean that you are releasing me?"

"Now he sees my meaning!" There was an amused twinkle in the healer's eyes. "Yes, my lord," I do not think that keeping you in here does you more good than what your own chambers could do. I think it is time that we see if you can make it by yourself. Not that I will not check on you," he added with a hint of a warning to his voice.

Faramir spun around and a beautiful smile that went straight to Aragorn's heart was given unto him. "That is brilliant news!" So caught up in the joy that within Aragorn grew tenfold at simply watching his lover so happy, Faramir placed a sweet kiss on his lips.

"The operative word in my lecture being 'behave'…"

Aragorn cared not at all. He cared not that they were being watched and that he was King of the Reunited Lands, he cared only for the man who was his betrothed and who was now kissing him. He parted his lips and with his tongue did the same to Faramir's. His hands went up and tangled in the copper tresses, bringing him as close as he might. Faramir beat him to the goal by thrusting his tongue into Aragorn's mouth, sending swirls of rushing heat playing in the older man's breast and stomach.

He was being caressed, by eager hands that had held back for far too long. Determined fingers pushed away the covers and blindly swept over his chest. Never before had a simple shirt created such a barrier.

Aragorn grazed his teeth against Faramir's lower lip and elicited a moan from him. His tongue was captured by equally determined lips and sucked on. As dizziness born out of pleasure hovered at the edge of his mind, Aragorn felt the heat travel lower in his body and his hips bucked on their own. He felt Faramir smile into the kiss and his hand purposefully brushed over a cloth-covered nipple.

The world swam around him when Aragorn regretfully pulled away to breathe. Faramir's cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright with lust.

They were alone.

If that was not a kiss full of promise, then Aragorn was gravely mistaken.

-oooo-

Evening had fallen over the City and with it had come the usual calmness that was, this winter, customary even during daytime. The sky had turned black a long time ago and the stars did their best to brighten the sight.

Twisting and turning the parchment over and over in his hands, Aragorn watched from his window in the royal bedchamber as the lights of Minas Tirith went out one by one as the residents went to bed. He had been sitting here for almost an hour, pondering and debating with himself. Now, it was time to make up his mind.

"Does he have any family?"

The voice from the doorway answered with trained efficiency. "Yes, my lord, a mother and a younger sister."

The candle on the desk flickered and went out, leaving it up to the embers in the fire-place and the two oil lamps to light up the room as best they could on their own.

"Make sure they are taken care of."

"Yes, my lord."

"You will notify those who guard our borders of his crimes, and they shall all be given his full name and a detailed description of his appearance."

"Yes."

"The King of Rohan shall also know of this, but I leave it up to him to decide whether or not to allow him passage through his lands."

More and more lamps were extinguished in the City below. Aragorn once more glanced at the parchment he was holding.

"You will yourself make sure that he travels with only provisions enough to last him a day's ride from the border. And if his cloak is too thick, you shall have it replaced by a thinner one."

"Yes, my lord."

"His future children, should he sire any, shall not inherit his doom. If they prove not to have been affected by their father's ill-will, then they shall be welcome to come and go as they please in Gondor and Arnor."

Aragorn reached for the quill that lay waiting for him on the desk. Shedding the last remains of doubt, he signed his name on the parchment.

"Deren son of Vorgen is hereby, upon his sortie, for the rest of his days forbidden to enter The White City, and he is expatriated from Gondor for as many days. The same applies to the re-established realm of Arnor. I will never see him again, and so, should he be caught trying to cross the borders to either of these lands, the guards may do to him what they see fit, providing they can answer for their deeds and give a just explanation during the inevitable interrogation that will follow."

"Yes, my lord."

"He shall depart at first light, with an escort of your choosing, to make sure that he reaches Gondor's borders as is demanded of him."

Wearied, Aragorn let the parchment lie on the desk with the quill not covering it at all as much as he would have liked.

"Is there anything else, my lord?"

"No, thank you. You may go."

His eyes strayed back to the window as the parchment was picked up from the desk and carried away. Mumbles came from the doorway and there was some shuffling.

"Thank you, Eachann," said a voice and the door closed and it was over.

A pair of feet, careful not to disturb the calmness that sought to replace the previous tension, padded across the floor and two arms encircled him from behind, minding not at all that they also embraced the back of the chair. A soft kiss landed upon his hair.

"You made the right decision, Aragorn."

"How can you be certain?"

A hand stroked the silky texture of his robe and he received a second kiss.

"Because as much as I would have liked to see him suffer as he made you suffer, my heart tells me too, that we solve nothing by being monstrous."

"I am that wise?"

Faramir's low laughter was deeply comforting. "If you forget it, I am here to remind you."

-oooo-

What the King and the Steward knew not, and what they would probably never learn, was that, two days later, in the second hour of dawn, a firm promise that had been made many days earlier was brought to completion.

Eachann had with one last survey of Deren sent him on his way from the borders of Gondor. The ranger had been at the receiving end of several curses aimed at him and had even been spat at by the blond, and was rather glad to see himself released from custody. Deren held his chin high as they rode, deigning no one with even a glance. But now, when Eachann watched him ride away into an icy cold sea of white, the young man turned in his saddle and offered them one final sight of his face. He said nothing, though, and soon disappeared into the trees.

"We will keep watch here for some time," Eachann told his company. "More guards are watching the borders nearby, in case he should come back."

With that, he set to work building a fire, more pleased to be back in the woods again than he wanted to admit.

It was not much further away that Deren came upon a pond, its frozen waters partially hidden by the snow. He slipped off his horse and inspected the ground. He may, or he may not, have made it without incident but as quick as a moonbeam the light of dawn seized its opportunity. It brightened its light to such an extent that the white snow became a field of shining, sparkling _mithril_, blinding him. Closing his eyes to the intensity of the glow, Deren set his foot down and felt the ice crack beneath him.

He came back up again – the light of dawn made sure of that, for it was not cruel – but he was shaking and trembling in his soaked clothes, and it took him quite a while to build a fire. And even longer, indeed far longer, it took him to summon even a part of his former self-assurance.

**tbc**

**And that is the fate of Deren. **

**Now my friends, the next chapter will be the last, and then there's only the epilogue left. This is your last chance to tell me if there's anything you feel I've missed. See you in about a week! Merry Christmas!**


	24. Loving

**We have come now to the final chapter. ****We will see the last change of perspective as we return to Faramir's mind. **

**Chapter 24 - Loving**

The Grand Hall of the former citadel of Minas Tirith lay in relative peace. Torch- and firelight explored the open spaces and did their best to conquer the corners as well. As soon as the first layers of snow and the outer coat of the ice had begun to melt a week before, the amount of activities had remarkably risen inside the palace. Rooms were being dusted more thoroughly as the number of messengers and travellers might – in a few weeks, if the weather did not change – increase, textiles were inspected and washed or discarded and ambitious plans for future deliveries were being made in the kitchens and the storages.

Faramir turned over a page in his book. He lay swathed in a cocoon of warmth, not really needing the heated cider that had been brought to them and which surface now mirrored the flames in the fire-place instead. They had forsaken the chairs – to some badly hidden amusement among the staff – for the thick rug on the floor, and Faramir was now leaning against the King. Backed up by one of those heavy chairs that would not budge in the first place, as well as a small mound of pillows, Aragorn sat quite comfortably, or so he said. Faramir knew better than to argue.

Now and again, the soft rustle of parchment was heard as Aragorn leafed through the pile of documents he was reading, and sporadically he would huff or hum at some new discovery. The Steward in Faramir – the dutiful side to him he had let overshadow much of his own personality – desperately wished to know what information Aragorn had stumbled upon, but as he had been asked not to take on so much work as before, he kept silent. Aragorn knew well this was not an easy request for Faramir to accept and so he once in a while pondered aloud instead. Faramir was quite certain he did so only to further assure the Steward that what he was reading was naught but 'trivialities'.

Feet randomly crossed the floor in some errand. If he were to be honest, it had taken Faramir some time to get used to the intimate scene he was helping to create in plain view. Aragorn had correctly pointed out though, that once married, it would look very strange indeed if the royal couple did not share a fair amount of intimacy even in public. And then he underlined his statement by kissing Faramir in the midst of the bustle that was lunch. The younger man had swallowed his words of distress and his fear and yielded. To not only Aragorn's joy but also to the timid delight of his own heart.

Aragorn's fingers idly toyed with the lower hem of Faramir's tunic. He gave a new huff and then spoke up. "Did you know that there are three fairly large gardens growing nothing but raspberries only four leagues south of the City?"

Not drawing his eyes from the book, Faramir nodded against Aragorn's broad chest. "Yes. I was there last summer."

"Hm."

The hand temporarily left the tunic and went to aid the other one as Aragorn searched for a particular parchment of some kind. Upon finding what he was looking for, he sent the hand back and it came to a rest upon Faramir's thigh.

"Do you know for how long I have wanted this?"

Faramir turned another page.

"To know about the three gardens south of Minas Tirith?"

Aragorn dropped the stack of documents on the rug and brought both of his arms around the younger man. "Aye, it makes me inexplicably happy."

Faramir put aside his book and turned his head and eyes upward. "Had I known that it would only take some raspberries…" he smiled.

"Maybe a bit more," whispered Aragorn and placed a lingering kiss on his forehead.

The King's warm lips had just left his skin when the sound of footfall came closer and two women approached them, the younger one with an uncertain step and seemingly hiding in the shadow of the elderly one. Faramir, surprised, sat up a little straighter when he recognised the woman in front. This was not how he had intended to tell Mòrag of the latest developments in his life, but then, with the speed of the tongues in this place it was probable she already knew. And, if she did not, undeniably she could tell in this very moment.

"Mòrag?" He put on another smile and hoped he looked braver than he felt. "It is long since I saw you in the Grand Hall!"

Upon coming to stand before them, her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of Aragorn's arms still encircling him. Her white apron immediately drew the attention of the firelight which excitedly coloured it orange. She folded her arms across her chest and pursed her lips. Then her eyes released Aragorn and moved to Faramir and finally she smiled.

"I have some business up here, you see," she said. "This lassie here wishes to speak to the King." she half-turned and ushered the younger woman into the firelight.

As light fell on her face, Faramir identified her as the servant who had, on that dreadful night, told him that Aragorn wished not to dine with them, when he really lay in the snow outside. She looked nervous now, as she brought her hands to clasp before her chest. Her gaze fell to the floor as she spoke.

"My lord, I am very sorry. I cannot see… That is… I beg for your forgiveness, I should have made the distinction between your voice and… his! At once." She raised her eyes to Aragorn. "I never thought–"

Aragorn held up a hand to stem the flow of words. His other hand pressed a little firmer against Faramir's body and the thumb began to draw small circles upon the fabric of the tunic as if he wanted to convey some type of emotion he could not word at present.

"I blame you not," he assured her. "Instead, let us all forget that night, or at the very least, dwell no longer upon it."

She exhaled and bowed her head. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you." Her voice was not much more than a relieved whisper, but beside her, Mòrag looked satisfied.

"Very well," she stated. "Now, run down to the kitchens for me and make sure they are stirring the soup often enough. I have no wish to start all over again."

The younger woman curtsied in Aragorn's direction and then walked swiftly off. As soon as she was out of earshot, Mòrag shook her head at Faramir.

"A fine mess she has been lately, I will tell you! Dropping this and that at any moment…" Her eyes settled on Aragorn whose hands were once more joined at Faramir's waist. "So, my lord, I am grateful you eased her troubles."

"It is as I said: I cannot blame her for another's doings." Aragorn spoke firmly.

She answered him not, but instead searched Aragorn's form intently where he sat behind Faramir. At last, she nodded and addressed Faramir again.

"Everything as it should be, dear?" She spoke softer now and he detected the concern that never left her voice when they talked of private matters.

"All is well," he said, suddenly more relaxed. "Aragorn?" He turned in his lover's embrace and smiled. "This is Mòrag, Chief Cook and…" he cast a glance at her over his shoulder, "and… protector of my soul perhaps..." His voice fell and he felt Aragorn's arms reaffirming their grasp. "While Boromir watched out for my physical being..."

There was a tug at his heart as Aragorn's lips sought out his brow and kissed it gently. He was released only so much that he was able to turn back again.

"Then I should be the one thanking you," said Aragorn. "I find myself in grave debt to you, Mòrag."

At these words, she offered Aragorn the first warm smile since her arrival in the Hall. "You are in no debt to me, my lord. Truly it gladdens my heart to see Faramir thus." She winked at the younger man. "There is a light about you now, laddie."

Faramir cleared his throat, not really knowing how to respond. Aragorn though, answered her seriously.

"I would never see that light fade."

She nodded. "You will see to his happiness then, sire?"

"I will. I give you my word."

Wondering if he should enlighten them on the fact that he was still very much present, Faramir squirmed in Aragorn's embrace.

"I am quite grown," he muttered.

He was met with laughter from two directions.

"Are you sure of that?" Aragorn hugged him close. "I mean it, _meleth_, you too have my word."

Chuckling, Mòrag shook her head at them. "I will leave you now. But I shall keep you to your promise, my lord." She gave them a final smile before a graver look passed over her face. "Send me word if the soup is inedible tonight. Because then I have some scolding to do."

They watched in silence as she strode across the floor and exited the room. When they were alone once more, Aragorn leaned back against the pillows, bringing Faramir with him. Settling down with his cheek against Aragorn's chest, he heard a long sigh escape the older man's lips.

"She can be rather intimidating when she wishes it, can she not?"

Faramir smiled. "Were you scared, Aragorn?"

The King mock-slapped him on his back. "Never."

"Right. Am I supposed to believe you?"

Aragorn tilted his chin upward with gentle fingers and gave a lopsided smile. "Maybe not this time."

Faramir pushed himself up and carefully brushed his mouth against Aragorn's. He had intended for it to be a quick kiss as they were not behind locked doors, but when Aragorn raised his head from the pillows and increased the pressure, Faramir found himself in a more lasting embrace and his eyes closed to allow his other senses to take over.

An inquisitive tongue slipped forth and traced the soft skin of Faramir's lips, moistening them and stroking lightly. Faramir picked up some courage and opened up, taking the opportunity to nibble carefully at Aragorn's lower lip. He felt Aragorn's hands stroking his upper arm and his back, more and more forcefully. When his tongue finally plunged his mouth, Faramir welcomed the warmth with only a small amount of hesitation left in his mind.

It was enough however, for Aragorn to notice. "Do not care about any others, love," he breathed into Faramir's mouth. "I want you so much."

Faramir struggled to keep his head clear as Aragorn's hands worked themselves underneath his tunic and began exploring his skin unreservedly. His tongue darted forth again and claimed Faramir's mouth with fervour.

"We cannot… Aragorn," whispered Faramir hoarsely when he was temporarily released and Aragorn's lips concentrated on his neck instead. He could not stop his own hand though, as it travelled downwards and found the place where hip melted into upper thigh. He could even feel the tremor that ran through his lover when he touched him so close to his private parts.

"We are alone," Aragorn groaned into Faramir's hair. He grazed his teeth against the skin of his neck. "Touch me, please…"

Against better knowledge, Faramir shifted and made room for his hand between his own body and Aragorn's groin. Listening intently, and trying to pick up any other sounds than their mingled, heavy breathing, Faramir slowly slid his hand over the swelling erection trapped inside Aragorn's leggings. He cupped the bulge and nearly lost his breath as Aragorn thrust into his palm and simultaneously caught his mouth again. Faramir feverishly kissed back, rubbing his hand against the fabric and feeling Aragorn respond to his every move. He sucked on his lover's tongue, drawing a series of deep moans from him.

"Aragorn…" mumbled Faramir when they parted for breath. "Someone will enter."

He opened his eyes and found that his King was looking at him with a gaze steeped in pure want. Stilling his hand, Faramir tried a more serious expression. Aragorn breathed harshly and his hands did not stop their caressing of his chest and back.

"And what if they do not?"

"We are in the Grand Hall," Faramir protested weakly, not entirely sure he even wanted to leave and so put an end to this – even if it was only for while.

"It will take us a large amount of time to walk to my chambers," said Aragorn, brushing a determined finger over one of Faramir's nipples, making the younger man arch against him. "I want you now." He caught the nipple and tweaked it between his thumb and forefinger and so caused Faramir's mind to slip into an eager haze of desire. "I want your heat around me," he whispered. "Will you give me that, love?"

Faramir's gaze flew around the room several times before he made up his mind. He would give Aragorn what he wanted, but not perhaps in the way he expected. Sending his lover – his love – a mischievous smile he deftly untied the laces beneath his hand and licked his lips.

Aragorn was about to capture his mouth again, but he avoided the kiss, and wriggled out of the embrace. The King had time to frown before Faramir purposefully slipped down his body and levelled his face with Aragorn's groin. He gave one more smile and then pushed aside the fabric and revealed the hardened member he found inside. A delightful look of complete surprise settled on Aragorn's face as he realised what Faramir was about to do.

An irresolute hand landed on Faramir's shoulder and Aragorn swallowed loudly. "You need not… if you do not want to…"Aragorn stumbled over the words as his eyes drank in the scene before him.

Faramir adjusted his position on the rug and cautiously placed a first kiss on the warm skin close to his lips, eliciting a hiss from Aragorn. Figuring that words were unnecessary, Faramir gently encircled the base of the shaft with one hand and then for the first time, tasted Aragorn's flesh.

To the poorly restrained groans that fell from Aragorn's lips, Faramir explored the throbbing erection with his tongue and mouth, continuously developing his skill and deeming he was doing alright when he felt Aragorn thrash underneath him. He licked the underside from base to top, revealed the glistening head by pulling back the skin, and placed a soft kiss on the very tip of the member.

He felt desire course through his own body as Aragorn's erratic breathing filled his ears. His own manhood, pressed against the floor, was swelling painfully. Increasing the force of the dance his lips carried out, he shifted and could numbly untie his own leggings and take himself in hand. He was unused to this, but found he managed to pleasure himself at least somewhat while still keeping his attention on Aragorn.

Aragorn, who was visibly fighting his own body, not allowing it to thrust at its own will. He was gradually losing control and a sharply drawn breath was Faramir's only warning before his lover emptied himself against the younger man's lips. Hesitation briefly gripped Faramir at this, but the sight of Aragorn coming in such a manner, crushed this feeling and sent a fire raging in his body. Equally swiftly, Faramir found his own release and lost himself to greater forces.

Aragorn's hands tugged at his tunic blindly and urged him to come closer. Shaking, Faramir used up some unknown reserve of strength he harboured and fell into a desperate embrace. Rushed but hushed words were all around him, weaving into his system and chasing the tremors and trembles that shook his body.

"My love… _Ai melethron_, Faramir…"

Gradually, he calmed down, sensing the same happening to Aragorn, and after a while there was only soft breathing left.

"I love you Aragorn," he whispered and felt a kiss being pressed into his hair. "I am sorry, I was not prepared…" The stickiness of their respective releases coated his hand and Aragorn's slackening length.

"You could not have done better," mumbled Aragorn. "It was the most enticing scene I have ever laid eyes on."

Faramir felt a faint rise of colour in his cheeks. "I had to touch myself, in the end…"

"Do you hear me objecting?" Aragorn once more claimed his attention by tilting his face upward. "You are beautiful."

Smiling a bit self-consciously, but still rather pleased, Faramir eyed the man he had agreed to marry. Aragorn's lips were red and swollen, his dark hair tousled and his stormy grey eyes shone. A shimmering sheen of sweat covered his forehead and he was smiling a smile that carried a hint of wonder.

"I think I will be happy with you," Faramir said quietly.

"Good, for I shall be very happy with you." Aragorn ran a hand over Faramir's hair, smoothing it down. "Do you have the strength to help me back to my chambers? I think I ought to wash."

"So now we go to your rooms?" laughed Faramir.

"Yes," said Aragorn decisively. "I believe our business here is finished. Will you help me up?"

Retying his laces, and then generously doing the same for Aragorn, Faramir got to his feet a little unsteadily. If he was stiff and unused to standing up after so many hours, it was nothing to what Aragorn was experiencing, he suspected. With his aid, Aragorn managed to rise to his feet, but he stumbled on his first step and leaned heavily against Faramir.

"Let us ignore the documents and the book," Faramir advised as he held Aragorn close. "They will be taken care of by someone."

Nodding against his shoulder, Aragorn inhaled deeply to summon some strength. "Maybe we can dine in bed tonight," he sighed. "I will not make it to my chambers, then here and then all the way back again."

Stroking his back, Faramir agreed. He did no longer fear for Aragorn's health in the same way he had done during the past weeks, but he would not put him through any unnecessary ordeals either. They remained for a while in the same pose, until Aragorn stirred and pulled back slightly.

"Shall we try again?" He wore a weak smile that far from reached his eyes.

Faramir leaned in and kissed those lips. "Yes."

He slid an arm around Aragorn's waist, supporting him firmly and letting the older man weigh him down as much as he wished. Aragorn needed some time until he had decided for himself which position helped him the most, but in the end, he was grasping Faramir's other arm and walked half a step in front of the Steward.

The going was slow, very slow. More than once, Faramir silently wondered what Aragorn would say about having chairs or benches placed in the hallways at regular intervals. He would most likely disapprove of the idea and stubbornly state that he needed them not. The truth was, of course, another.

After many long minutes, Faramir was finally able to push open the door to Aragorn's chambers and lead him inside. With a grateful sigh, the King sunk down on the bed and ran a tired hand over his face. The room lay in semi-darkness as the day was fading but had not yet turned into night. A tentative bluish glow, mingled with a white light only seen in winter, fell in through the windows and fingered the shadows.

"Maybe we should place some benches in the hallways?" The words slipped out of Faramir before he could check them, but the sight of Aragorn so exhausted unsettled him.

Aragorn remained silent for a long while, his eyes trained on the standing form of his young love in front of him. Faramir sunk to his knees upon the naked stone floor. He placed his hands on Aragorn's thighs.

"You are tiring yourself for no reason, Aragorn," he said softly. "There is no need to drain yourself so. And you need not uphold a façade, not for me, nor for the staff."

Nodding slowly, Aragorn sighed once more. "You are right," he stated simply, his voice devoid of its usual, obstinate force. "Will you see to it?"

"First thing tomorrow," Faramir was quick to say before Aragorn changed his mind. Then he caught that tired hand and stroked it lovingly. "It is not showing weakness, it is ensuring that you stay with me for as long as possible."

The first signs of a smile ghosted across Aragorn's face. "Then you have my leave to fill the entire palace with benches."

"I could disguise their intended purpose by placing bookshelves beside them?"

"Who would ever choose to read in a hallway?"

Faramir smiled. "You? And I, perhaps?"

Aragorn raised his other hand and trailed a finger down Faramir's cheek. In the dim light, Aragorn's hair changed into a darker shade and gleamed almost of black.

"My jewel," he whispered.

His skin paled in the blue twilight that enfolded Minas Tirith. But in his face was the unmistakable dawning of a new life, and a new season.

"My King."

Faramir gently turned his head and kissed the finger that had come to a rest by his jaw line.

"My lover."

He met the eyes that were watching him so intently.

"My love."

In the deep blue sky, the first silvery starlight of evening appeared.

**-oooo-**

**This is the end of the story in a way. You may finish here, or you continue reading the epilogue that will follow in about a week. Due to too many ideas, the epilogue will consist of two parts. Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Blessings for a new and happy year to all of you. **

_Melethron - _(male) lover, Sindarin


	25. Epilogue, Part 1

**This is the first part of the epilogue. I usually don't like epilogues if they aren't like a good, solid, proper chapter (because I'm greedy and want to know **_**everything**_**). Hence the length of this one… Notes follow the second part. **

**I'll give you the new elvish right away (all Sindarin):**

_ada_ – dad/daddy

_tiro_ – look

_daro_ – stop

_tithen pen_ – little one

_ion_ – son

**-oooo-**

**The Coldest Winter, **

**Epilogue, part 1**

**Minas Tirith, in the fifth year of the Fourth Age (IV 5)**

"_Ada, ada! Tiro, tiro, tiro!"_

A small running figure burst out of the nearby shrubbery and lunged himself at Faramir. The dark, curly head came first, profoundly knocking the breath out of his chest, followed by a soft body that scrambled down into his lap. A muddy hand was shoved in his face and two bright eyes glittered at him.

"_Ada_! A frog!" A beaming smile went with the statement.

Reeling backwards just a little, Faramir blinked at the tiny creature, most unwillingly encased in the tight grip.

"Right," he said, swallowing. "Why do you not let it go? Surely it will be happier hidden in the bushes?" Trying to sway his son in cases such as this was not the easiest task.

The small face frowned. "But _ada_, if he were hidden I could not see him."

"'He'?"

"Yes, he is a he!" Eldarion was once more one big, happy smile.

"And how do you know that?"

Giving his father a look that said _everything_, he patted his treasure with his other hand. "Because he said so."

"Of course." Faramir bit his lip to keep from smiling too much. "What else did he say?"

Eldarion pondered this with an expression of profound concentration. "I think he really, really likes the summer."

"Good for him," said his father.

Suddenly the small boy gave a shrill, disappointed cry as his hand was flung into the air. Heedlessly he threw himself after the fleeing frog but only ended up with his nose in the grass a couple of feet away. "Nooo!"

Frantically staring after the escapee, Eldarion scrambled to his feet and began running. "I will catch him, _ada_!" he called back to his father over his shoulder.

Not knowing whether he ought to be troubled or not, Faramir saw him crash into a new shrubbery further down in the gardens, sending some leaves flying in the sunlight. Slightly overwhelmed, he grabbed the bunch of documents he was reading through before they were carried off by the breeze.

He was sitting in the private parts of the gardens, 'private' meaning that the royal family received an extra apology if they were disturbed in here. It was mid-July and the City was swarming with travellers and merchants. The latest delivery from Rivendell had arrived that morning and though the lists had been written by Lord Elrond himself, he still needed to go over them. It was easy to forego however, as the sunlight shone down upon him and the temporary stillness lay like a nurturing blanket around him. Sighing contentedly, he leaned back against an impressive oak and let the documents stay on the grass, secured however, with a fairly large stone on top.

Then, as quickly as his son had appeared and disappeared, a new figure was sighted. This one moved slower, though, and was far taller. Equally as much loved, but loved in another way, King Elessar made his way through the gardens with the gentle wind playing in his hair. He walked cautiously, leaning on something that more resembled a wizard's staff than a stick or a cane. As stubborn as always, Aragorn had refused to use any walking aids that would make him resemble an old man.

This was also why Faramir remained where he was and did not get up to help him. Many discussions of the kind they had been through, and now he had given up – but only after having been promised he could help his spouse when he had reached the age of one hundred and eighty. Perhaps.

Coming up to where his former fulltime Steward was seated on the grass, Aragorn smiled a smile tinted with a bit of confusion. "Was that Eldarion I saw diving into the bushes?"

"Yes," acknowledged Faramir and nodded in the direction of the frog-pursuit. "Aragorn, are you sure he is not hobbit?"

Chuckling, Aragorn lowered himself to ground and with a small grunt managed to make himself comfortable. Faramir wisely held his tongue, but drew him closer until he had his King secured in his embrace.

"Now you are my frog," he grinned.

"_What?"_

"Nah," said Faramir and patted his shoulder in an imitation of their son. "Nothing. But this one is not fleeing."

"I just might if you prove to have gone completely mad…" Aragorn muttered but nevertheless nestled closer to his spouse.

The sun-dappled leaves rustled above and a faint stirring of the grass brought them a rich scent of blooming. Faramir absentmindedly stroked the arm that rested on his thigh as he leaned back and rested his head against the supporting tree-trunk. The closeness of Aragorn's firm body and the warm weather served to lull him into a doze and he felt his eyes close to the faint singing that enveloped him tenderly.

The sun painted streaks of light on their bodies, as they both drifted off together. Telling the wind to quieten, the midday light proficiently burned away any lingering memories of long winters spent indoors, and days that lacked in hope and happiness.

"… that would be… the kitchens…"

Faramir sighed in his slumber, feeling the tree a little bit more keenly against his back.

"…one could never do _that_ too many times a day… I remember…"

Aragorn shifted in his arms and reached for his hand to hold.

"…you should have seen us! Starved to the very bone we were!"

The voice grew clearer as the speaker evidently came nearer – and grew more excited. Extremely reluctant to properly slip back into his body, Faramir tried not to listen. Unfortunately, when a hobbit is determined to tell a story, he is determined to tell a story.

"But then, in the midst of all the chaos – and a mighty pickle we were in, I will have you know – I made a brilliant – a brilliant – discovery! There they were, two barrels, just idly floating about!"

With a loud groan, Aragorn raised himself up a little. "Pippin, he is two years old! He will know naught of the Longbottom Leaf for many a year yet to come!"

"Strider, there you are!"

Faramir opened one eye and glimpsed the beaming hobbit. Elboron fiercely clutched his hand as they were trudging along on the grass at a slow pace.

"Is all well?" he inquired and earned himself a reproachful glare from Pippin.

"No need to worry!" the hobbit declared. "Well, there _could_ have been some more roast potatoes at lunch, but that is but a tiny detail in the grander scheme of things, I suppose."

Laughing, Aragorn fell back into his previous position. "Is that not an appropriate problem for the honorary Caretaker of Gondor to tackle?"

Pippin pulled his shoulders back a little and raised his chin. There was a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. After some intense thinking, he brightened visibly. "It just might be! It just might be." Nodding to himself, he turned to Elboron who was fingering something in his free hand. "Come, let us engage in conversation with this wise King and his noble husband for a while."

They trotted over and settled down upon the grass. Shaking his head, Faramir reached out and ruffled his youngest son's fair hair. "What have you there?" he asked Elboron, pointing to the hand which closed firmly over something.

Blue eyes caught his. "Hazeeut!"

"A 'hazeeut'?" Aragorn asked doubtfully.

"A hazelnut," clarified Pippin. "We are working on it."

Lovingly caressing his son's cheek, Aragorn smiled. "I rely on you Pippin. We are raising future Kings here."

Faramir felt a sharp twist in his heart at this. As the fearful images of not only future Kingships rose before his eyes, also the images of future battlefields and suffering came to him. Not even his two sons, too precious for the outer world to ever lay its hands on, would be spared from whatever pain that awaited them. Here was little Elboron, fair and thoughtful already despite his only two years, who faithfully followed Pippin wherever he went, and who was inconsolable as soon as he spotted the hobbit leaving through the gates. And then Eldarion, so alike his birthfather in appearance and with an eagerness that would take him far away from his homelands one day, on his quest for new discoveries.

Without really knowing it, he pulled at Aragorn's tunic, and desperately wished he could stave off the future and remain here, in this place and in this moment forever. Aragorn, who noticed his change in mood as if it were his own, turned in his embrace and caught his eyes.

"What is wrong, _meleth nin_?"

Faramir shrugged, a little embarrassed at this display of emotions. "I simply do not want them to grow up," he said quietly. Glancing over at Pippin who was busy investigating the hazelnut Elboron would only show to him, he sighed. "A fine parent, am I not?" He gave a weak half-smile.

Aragorn's grey gaze held him steady. "The finest," he said and brushed his lips against Faramir's.

When he was released, Faramir cupped Aragorn's face and hoped his heart spoke loud enough for his spouse to hear. In that way he needed not to word his thoughts.

"In the grander scheme of things, we have so little time," Aragorn whispered and Faramir nodded.

"The last time was the last."

Against his will Faramir remembered a moonlit night more than four months earlier. The fifth winter since that fateful one – when the Erelas delegation had turned their lives into a spinning whirlwind of emotions and actions – had loosened its grip on Minas Tirith many weeks before. Yet the nights were long and the days chilly. Mists strayed over the fields long past the gloomy midday hour and life seemed reluctant to conquer the lingering drowsiness of winter. Aragorn's jaw was set and there was remorse in his eyes – not as much as before, but enough to again assure Faramir that he did not this gladly.

As there was not much to say, Faramir had dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He had endured this twice before and would do so a third time. Had someone told him five years ago that the pain would ease with time, he would not have believed them. As it was though, in the end, it was… bearable.

She was elven. That had been Aragorn's choice. To Faramir had been given the power to decide her dwelling-place. She had told them that she would return to Rivendell from whence she came if that was their wish, but Faramir had seen how much it pained her. She had no particular love for Aragorn, no more than the usual admiration for the man who had reunited the lost lands, but to force her to leave her future children behind was not a wound he wanted to inflict upon her. Faramir had far too few memories of his own mother to punish his husband's children in this way.

Comfortable chambers had been given to her, in a part of the former citadel that Faramir had no business in. She was free to go and leave as she pleased, not only from the palace but from Gondor as well, and after all was done, she was free to marry whomever she liked.

It seemed now that day might come sooner than expected.

"The last?"

"Aye." Aragorn was studying his face intently. "By the turning of the next winter, my third child shall come, and I shall have no more." He smiled faintly, a little uncertainly. "Then I am all yours, if you will still have me?"

Sensing the small spark of completion, Faramir shook his head but smiled all the same. "You think I would give up on you now?"

He hindered any further words from escaping Aragorn by placing his lips on that most beloved of mouths and gave his husband a long kiss. Aragorn melted against him and the kiss was hovering on the edge of becoming far more intimate than was initially intended when a rustling of leaves was heard and quick feet sped towards them. Aragorn broke away only in time to shout _"Ai, daro!" _before a curly head crashed into both of them, toppling them over onto their sides.

"_Ada!" _an even muddier and messier Eldarion than before cried out blissfully as he threw himself at Aragorn.

Struggling to untangle himself from the mess of limbs, Faramir brushed his hair out of his face. "Dari, you know you cannot– "

"_Ada!" _

Before he knew it, Faramir had an armful of enthusiastic Eldarion as he hugged this other a_da_ of his. Making no difference between his fathers, their eldest was equally happy every time he saw them.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow while he tried his best to regain a sitting position. "Help me up will you, _tithen pen_, as this is your doing?"

Scrambling down from Faramir, Eldarion tugged at his arm, blind to the fact that Faramir secretly gave Aragorn a push.

"I did it!" The little boy was practically jumping up and down on the grass.

"I am tremendously grateful," Aragorn told him and placed a kiss on the forehead when he reached it.

"Dari," Faramir tried again, "you know you cannot throw yourself at your father like that. You are getting stronger and heavier by each passing day."

"Like the frog!" beamed Eladarion.

"What is this about a frog?" Aragorn asked as he settled back against Faramir, stretching out his long legs in front of him. "I keep hearing about a frog."

"He escaped." Now he was pouting. "I hunted him, and hunted him, and I even pleaded _ada_! But he escaped." He spun around and threw his arms out in a wide circle to indicate the vast project of hardship he had undertaken.

"Aw, I am sorry," said Aragorn.

"I you had seen the poor frog, you would not say so," mumbled Faramir in his ear and heard his husband laugh low.

"Pippin, what are you doing?" Eldarion had swiftly abandoned his sorrows and was watching Pippin watching them.

Elboron was still protectively guarding his hazelnut.

"You know, we used to do that, Merry and I," said Pippin. "We would lunge ourselves at your father just to see what would happen! Brilliant!"

"Remind me never to go on a Quest ever again," said Aragorn.

"What quest _ada?_" Wide, dark eyes were turned to him.

"Long story. For elder folk," concluded Faramir. "Not for your ears just yet." To take his son's mind of this he reached for him and grabbed him by his waist. Pulling him close, he held two of the people he loved most in this world.

For a short while.

"There is the frog!"

Eldarion shook off his arm and plunged headfirst into the grass, aptly demonstrating what might happen if one ever attempted a dive without having water at hand.

"I am beginning to suspect that you might be correct," Aragorn said with wonder in his voice.

"No." Faramir shook his head. "I have changed my mind. Now I think he is dwarven."

-oooo-

Somewhere between glowing shapeless images and a floating feeling of absolute calm, Faramir was dazedly aware of something working itself into his system. Warmth and softness, dimmed light and the soundless haze of sleep surrounded him and held him close. Yet, the presence of some motion touched his dosing senses and gently lifted them into the waking world.

Sighing, he turned over and snuggled closer to the warm chest he found there, right beside him. He breathed in the scent of Aragorn's body and of the warm sunlight that floated in through the window-glass. He slipped down further into his sleep but only to be brought back up again as a hand began stroking his thigh underneath the simple white sheets that covered them. Soft lips were tentatively dancing at his temple and he once more felt the bright light of morning toying with his eyelashes.

During these, the warmest months of the year, they slept unclothed and Aragorn had but to pass his palm over Faramir's naked skin in order to stir up some interest in his body. Without opening his eyes, Faramir left a cluster of tender kisses on Aragorn's chest, earning himself a firmer stroke from the hand, still rather chastely running up and down his thigh.

Aragorn's lips were travelling over his forehead and down his nose to finally settle over his mouth. That was when some shuffling was heard outside the bedchamber and the door flew up. Faramir felt the soft mouth abruptly disappear, and blinking, he most unwillingly opened his eyes to the dazzling radiance of day.

"_Ada!" _Eldarion was standing in the doorway, adorned with a bright smile and a complete mess of dark curls. "Are you awake?"

Aragorn's hand left Faramir's thigh and came up from underneath the sheets to rub his eyes. "Yes, yes… I think we are. I am… If I am who you meant."

"Or _ada_!" The small form of their eldest stated, happy that any of them was awake enough to form coherent speech. Without warning, he burst forward, nearly tripping over his long nightshirt and with an enormous display of willpower, he managed to climb into the bed. "Are you sleeping?" He tilted his head and inspected Faramir's confused and drowsy form.

"No, not now, I think…" Faramir cleared his throat and did his best to indeed wake up properly. "And what about you?"

"Of course I am not!" Eldarion flung his arms out in the direction of the door. "Then I would still be in my room!" His eyes widened with what looked like expectation and he held out a hand in which he clutched something dark and soft. "This is your birthday present!"

Even more confused by now, Faramir saw the piece of fabric being dropped on top of the sheets. It was a left-hand glove, crumpled and creased, but a glove it was nonetheless.

"Dari, my birthday is not for many months yet…"

The small face did not look the least troubled. "I know that! But if I did not show it to you now, how would I know that you will like it when I give it to you for real?"

Aragorn laughed heartily and picked up the glove. "Are you planning on finding a matching one as well?"

His son nodded resolutely and rather vigorously for such an early hour. "Yes, I think so." Then he turned back to Faramir. "Will you like it?"

Smiling, Faramir reached out, scooped him up and hugged him close. "I love it. Thank you."

Eldarion's muffled voice came sifting through his dark locks. "Now you must forget all about it, so you will be very surprised when you get it."

"I promise." He let his son out of his embrace and saw a wide grin spreading on the small lips.

Aragorn handed Eldarion back the glove. "Is Elboron still asleep?"

The curly head bobbed up and down. "It is boring, _ada_, he is so little!"

"He will grow and you shall see that you will find him interesting enough soon." The King stroked the cheek of his pouting son. "Now, why do you not run off in search of the other glove?"

Faramir caught Aragorn's eye and raised an eyebrow, but his spouse appeared very innocent.

Eldarion silently watched them for a moment, still with a hint of a sulk in his features. Then he seemed to make up his mind for he scrambled back towards the edge of the bed and slipped down to the floor. "Maybe," he said thoughtfully, "maybe I can find two and then you can have one too, _ada_!" He flashed a happy smile at Aragorn.

"Excellent!" Aragorn's hand dove underneath the sheets again and Faramir felt it resume its previous position on his thigh. "Good luck."

The small boy nodded and trotted over to the door. Before stepping back outside, he fixed Faramir with a serious stare. "You really liked it?"

"I did, I do," Faramir assured him with a smile.

"Will you sleep for much longer?"

Aragorn's hand slid downwards, along his leg. "Yes, _ion_, a while longer."

Eldarion slipped out of the room, but immediately put his head back in the door opening. There was a hopeful light in his dark eyes. "Can I have breakfast?"

"Yes," Faramir nodded. "Go and find Pippin and you can have breakfast together."

"He can look for another glove with me!" He beamed suddenly and without further ado, spun around and closed the door behind him.

Aragorn's mouth descended equally swiftly upon Faramir's lips and kissed him deeply. The open palm rushed higher up and cupped his hip bone, awakening a series of sparks in Faramir's stomach. He lifted a hand of his own and brought it around Aragorn's head to force him closer. He had just parted Aragorn's lips with his own tongue when a rustle broke through the newborn silence and the door was thrust open again. Aragorn pulled away immediately and Faramir's hand froze in mid-air.

Eldarion peered into the room once more, eyes alight with the beam of a new discovery not yet relayed. "I forgot!" he declared to Faramir. "There is a letter for you _ada_, from… the…" His face crumpled into a complicated expression of intense concentration, amusement and the urgent need to sound like he knew more of what he was speaking of than he really did. "From… the _ada _of _ada_!" he finally stated brightly.

Aragorn's low grumble ran through his chest. "He writes you more often these days than he does me."

Faramir gave him a wide smile and a teasing wink. "_You _have a very intelligent father. I shall not torment you by reading it now, though."

"How gracious of you." Hidden by the sheets, Aragorn's hand made a circling motion across his lower stomach. "As your King I give you leave to read it later."

Over by the door, Eldarion made a discontent huff. "Will you sleep for very, _very_ much longer?"

Dragged out of their respective planning of the activities that would keep them in bed for the rest of the morning, both Aragorn and Faramir nodded. "Yes," Faramir proclaimed quite forcefully, but making sure it was followed by a smile for his eldest.

"Have you forgotten about the glove?"

"Entirely."

"Okay," Eldarion said and withdrew his head.

The door closed and they heard the soft sound of small feet quickly disappearing. Without moving, they intently listened for any other noises – or well-known noises returning. Two minutes passed during which Aragorn lay absolutely still. Then he bowed his head and possessively plunged Faramir's mouth with his tongue.

**tbc**


	26. Epilogue, Part 2

**The first half is for Vanwa Hravani and Kelly who both thought I dealt too lightly with Deren. I hope this pleases you! Thank you both for your faith in this story.**

**The second part, that's for all of us ;)**

**-oooo-**

**The Coldest Winter, **

**Epilogue, part 2**

**Gondor, in the fifth year of the Fourth Age (IV 5)**

The gloom of twilight lay over the woods around the border of Gondor. The temperature was alternately rising and falling. As it was at present, the snow had been melting for two days, wetting the topmost layer of white and creating an icy coat of sharp flakes that could be cruel enough to those who did not glove their fingers. The midday light had waned into an afternoon shine, and this had in its turn faded into dusk. Long shadows which only moments before had freely swept across the snow now mingled with the oncoming lightless darkness of evening.

There were no noises to be heard in the forest and maybe this was one of the reasons that Eachann found the setting somewhat unsettling. He was a strong man, and a proud ranger, even though his role in the past years had somewhat changed with the coming of the new King – and the growing of his family. Eachann was, however, forever loyal to his former Captain, in whose tracks he had trod in far more dangerous woods than these.

Despite the treacherous weather and the troubling temper of the night, he was happy at being back outdoors. This was what he knew best and he was not surprised at finding it more pleasurable being here than wandering the hallways of the White Tower from morning until night.

He had had a lot of time to think. And the more he thought, the more certain he grew that he had truly seen some remarkable times during his years. Faramir may be wedded to the King now, but he was no less his Captain and no more Denethor's son than he had been before the War – or in the long years preceding it. Ever dutiful he had been, and ever had he put his heart's wishes aside for whatever little good he had hoped that action would bring.

Eachann had seen the change, yes he had. When Elendil's heir had appeared out of what seemed to be nothing else but remnants of old tales and songs, and had claimed the throne of Gondor, Eachann stood close to Faramir and so consequently heard the long breath of air that his Captain drew. He had witnessed the immediate kindling of the light of devotion in Faramir's eyes, and he had seen him shrink away just as quickly. And then no one really knew what had taken place, for whatever it was, it had happened in silence and well hidden from view.

Until Deren. Curse that name!

Even if pain and sadness were – throughout many a long year – constant presences in Faramir's eyes, Eachann had seen their power grow in the months during which King Elessar recovered from his accident, and with Deren in Minas Tirith, it had not lessened. And then, Deren. Once more – and Eachann had received a more thorough explanation than he had anticipated, even wished for.

A sudden rustle in the woods pulled his thoughts back to the present. Gripping his bow more firmly, Eachann sent a hopeful prayer to the Gods that is was, at least, a rabbit. A hare might do, if it was well-fed and had some meat on its bones. Not that their packs were empty, but fresh meat was always better than dried – and far, _far_, better it was than that elvish waybread the King had ordered them to bring along. 'In case something happened and they needed some extra strength' or whatever he had said. Legolas the Elf, who was alright to deal with in other matters, had sent a large batch from Ithilien where he and his people now dwelled. In fact, he made sure that the kitchens were never lacking in it. Weird creatures they were, those elves.

No, if Eachann had anything to say in the matter, he would recommend his men to eat some good and proper meat. And now, if luck proved to be on his side, he just might return to the campfires with some.

With some trouble he made his way through the snow which lay almost knee-high in the places where no trees would hinder it from falling to the ground. It softened the sound of his movements though, so he was able to creep forward undetected by the hidden animal.

In front of him, even in the gloom, Eachann saw the trees closing in on each other, forming a more compact wall of prickling fir-tree needles and snow-covered branches, bare of any withered leaves. He threaded his way between them, careful not to give away his presence.

Rustling was now heard somewhere to his right and so he changed his course, narrowing his eyes to peer through the trees. Night was falling swiftly and as darkness conquered the sky, the failing light of evening easily gave itself over to the shadows that greedily licked it up. The small fires of the ranger party were all lost to his sight, burning far away from where he was presently hunting his prey.

Snow slipped into his boots and would soon wet his skin as the heat of his body melted it. He was loathe to give up however as the mere thought of the elvish bread dared to penetrate his mind.

Eachann had learnt to get along with the elves as King Elessar had chosen an elvish… woman? Female? As King Elessar had chosen a female Elf to become the mother of his children. Also, with Legolas Thranduilion restoring the forests of Ithilien, eagerly aided by Faramir, his presence in Minas Tirith was common. Not mentioning the Lord Elrond, who seemed now quite content at staying in the White City for months in a row, as his sons – whom Eachann had also met on several occasions – looked after Rivendell, his realm. There had been talk of Elrond leaving for that place across the sea Eachann knew little about, but with the arrival of his grandchildren, the elvish Lord appeared to have decided to delay the voyage.

Maybe it was not hard to understand. The sons of the King – and Faramir, Eachann liked to think – were a blessing, even if they could be a handful at times. Not the youngest so much as the eldest, but as the hobbit Pippin had become Elboron's treasured friend, Eachann counted himself among those preferred by Eldarion. And now, as the King expected his third child to arrive any day, Lord Elrond had again travelled to Minas Tirith to aid in whatever way he could, be it only as a devoted grandfather. Eachann had no problem with this, it was just that there were plenty of elves around.

He should have known better than to become so submersed in his own thoughts. He had no warning before a strong arm gripped one of his own and twisted it around his back, and an ice-cold, sharp blade pressed against his throat.

"Good evening, old friend."

The voice was low and laced with false sweetness. It was a voice Eachann recognised immediately, even though several years had passed since he last heard it. Keeping his temper under control, he only hissed loudly, drawing a short chuckle from his attacker.

"Is that your idea of a proper greeting? Well, I never had much faith in you rangers. A brutal and uncivilised lot you are."

This direct insult went straight to Eachann's heart and awoke an anger that speedily rushed through him. Gritting his teeth, he tested the blade by shifting slightly in the uncompromising grip. "Release me."

"I cannot do that, for, you see, I am not sure that you will allow me into Gondor."

"As long as I draw breath I will not see you set your sorry foot inside the border."

"Ah!" The sound of a lazy smile slipped into the voice."That is why I am about to make sure that soon you will draw no more breaths."

"No one will welcome you in Gondor."

The knife pressed deeper into his skin and a sharp stinging told Eachann that his own blood was wetting the blade.

"I was once very close to your former Captain. It could be so again."

Eachann snorted. "You are delirious! Faramir never cared for you, and he is married to the King now."

"Yes… so I heard." Scraping the blade in an almost thoughtful way along his throat, Deren suddenly laughed. "No one – and nothing – is holy. I am sure I could… persuade Faramir." He reaffirmed his grip on Eachann's arm. "He cannot possibly love that weak and pathetic man who claims to be the heir of the Great Kings of old – nor those sons of his. No, I will take care of things and settle the matter appropriately." He wiped the blood from the blade by smearing it over Eachann's skin. "What do you say, my friend… how should I deal with the children?"

It was to the images of Eldarion and Elboron that flooded his mind that Eachann was able to break free from Deren by savagely kicking a booted heel into his knees. Taking advantage of the moment, he spun around and shoved away the arm that held the knife. And before he could think, Eachann thrust the top of his bow into Deren's chest, forcing the other man's breath out of him.

Rage replaced the surprise in Deren's eyes and he raised his arm, aiming at Eachann's throat once more, but this time not appearing intent on wasting his time. The ranger threw himself at it, bringing them both down and he used all of his strength to force the blade from the fingers that were gripping it fiercely. Breathing harshly, he rolled away from his foe, clutching both his bow and the knife in his hands.

"Flee, or I shall not be able to answer for my actions."

There was fright running across Deren's features, but he laughed nonetheless. "Merciful, are you Eachann?" He unsteadily got to his feet, backing away from the ranger holding up the blade before him. "Mercy is weakness! They are one and the same thing, do you not see?" His laughter turned shrill as he continued to stumble backwards in the snow.

Eachann's eyes narrowed as he watched the scene. His heart screamed with fury, and so did his mind. But King Elessar's orders had been clear that accursed winter. And the unspoken wish behind them, even more so. Eachann fingered the knife in his hands and his breathing refused to calm down.

The darkness was quickly obscuring his view, but Deren's voice carried through the trees without trouble.

"I am not weak, as you have seen! As everyone will see. I shall have that which I desire!"

Eachann dropped the knife to the ground. His jaw was set and he breathed not at all as he in one, swift move, reached for an arrow from his quiver, notched it and let it loose.

A piercing cry rang out into the forest.

Eachann notched a second arrow and sent it forth.

After the third arrow, silence ruled the woods.

Cautiously, he plodded through the thick layers of snow, but only far enough to see the heap of a body slumped beneath a fir-tree.

When he returned the next morning, he pulled out the arrowheads and cleaned them in the snow, deciding that if never questioned, he would say nothing about it.

That was the easiest way.

On his way back to the camp, snow began falling heavily, covering all that was not already buried beneath a blanket of innocent white.

-oooo-

Sliding open the door, Faramir let Aragorn enter the royal bedchamber first. A fire was roaring in its sooty cave and thick curtains had been drawn to keep the cold night out. A couple of oil lamps were lit and even some candles. The King of Gondor dropped down on the large bed while Faramir closed and locked the door behind them.

"She is beautiful, Aragorn."

Still with a smile on his lips, Faramir approached the small table nestled by the wall, near the desk. He lifted the carafe and poured two glasses of a dark red wine, scented with strong herbs and therefore rich in both aroma and taste.

"I confess I am a bit surprised."

Faramir turned to face the bed, lifting the glasses from the tabletop. "It _was _expected, was it not? At some point, at least?"

Aragorn was kicking off his boots. "I suppose no one could say for certain how these things work. Maybe my father can enlighten us?"

Faramir walked over to the bed with the wine flashing bright red in the flickering dance of the flames. "I shall ask him tomorrow, when I see him."

Putting away his boots, Aragorn looked up with a mock expression of displeasure. "I am glad you two are getting along so terrifically, but would you please not forget about my existence in the process of making friends with him?"

"I will do my very best to remember you," grinned Faramir as he placed one glass for Aragorn on the bed table and kept the other for himself. "Who did you say you were, now again?"

Being attacked by a positively amazing glare from his husband, he bent down and kissed the top of Aragorn's head, chuckling only a little as he did it. "Ah, it comes back to me, I find…" he mused as he pulled himself up again.

"Brilliant," Aragorn grumbled, but got to his feet, shooting an appreciative glance towards the floor.

"So, how do we celebrate the birth of you daughter, the first of the elven race in the family?" Faramir asked in a low voice, locking eyes with the dark-haired man in front of him.

Aragorn smiled a slow smile and traced a finger along his cheek. "You fell in love with her at once, did you not?"

Faramir shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He set his wine-glass down beside Aragorn's. "Do not think I love Eldarion and Elboron any less, but she is lovely."

Strong arms wrapped around him and he was pressed against the firm body of his husband.

"She resembles you."

"That is impossible, Aragorn."

The King backed off and held him an arm's length away. "Her hair has a reddish hue."

Faramir shrugged. "It will darken to brown."

"Maybe," agreed Aragorn and placed a kiss on his brow. "Then again, maybe not."

Faramir circled his waist with his arms and brought them close once more. Thoughtfully, he rested his head on Aragorn's shoulder. Naturally it was impossible for their daughter to resemble him at all but there was that tiny voice within that continuously repeated that maybe somehow, by the grace of the Valar, his love for Aragorn had left a small trace somewhere in the woven pattern of life.

The image of the newborn baby rose before his eyes and he smiled into the soft wool of Aragorn's tunic. Her delicate features, her pointed ears and her rosy lips… Yes, Faramir had fallen in love immediately. Her mother, obviously happy of having given birth to an elven child, had smiled blissfully. Faramir had found he could only do the same.

Aragorn's hand was sliding up and down his back, now and then tenderly tugging at his hair. "What are you thinking of, love?" His voice was low and gentle.

There was so much… So many years of pain and confusion, when he had thought he was all but lost to the world and forgotten by the people who were meant to love him – but had never really done so, or had not tried enough. Boromir had been taken from him – not only when he died, but many times before. His older brother had never meant for it to be so, but every time he made Denethor laugh, or praise him, Faramir had seen the void stretch between them.

Aragorn knew him well.

"You have a family of your own now." He snaked a hand around Faramir's chin and tilted his head backwards softly. "And we love you very much."

"I know," whispered Faramir before his lips were caught in a passionate kiss.

Aragorn undressed them swiftly, and as soon as they were wholly unclothed, he pressed his body against Faramir and forced him as close as possible. Faramir returned the action, caught Aragorn's mouth and let his tongue slip between two pairs of longing lips.

His husband's hands landed on his hips and circled them against his own, Faramir's swelling member meetings its partner. He tasted Aragorn's wet heat and delved deep into the softness of his mouth before releasing him and facing him again.

"I wish to take it slow tonight," he said as he met the trusting grey gaze that always looked at him so openly; there were no lies, no secrets and no cunning plans aimed at him in those stormy depths.

"Then it shall be so," responded Aragorn in low tones, and then he placed a single kiss on the bridge of Faramir's nose. "Tell me what you desire."

"You." His lopsided smile was kissed into a broader grin as Aragorn attempted to find out exactly what he meant.

When the King had no success, he let go and reached down to pick up the neglected wine. Without words, he offered Faramir his glass and caught his eyes. Aragorn touched the rim of his glass to Faramir's and they drank – in the younger man's mind, to the completion that this night hinted at, to the ending of something he could no longer define. To excruciating pain that had proved bearable when he saw the results it had brought: the two, nay three, precious results that were now fast asleep in three separate beds. To all the love that had replaced the hatred and the evil that before had infected this place. To his fate which had led him into the arms and the heart of someone so beyond measure. To Aragorn.

Faramir set his glass down and it was soon joined by a second one. Tentative hands began sweeping over his bare chest, sporadically brushing over his dark nubs and causing them to harden at the attention. He gave as good as he got and ran his fingertips over strong shoulders and upper arms, content when he saw the skin rise as a shudder sped across it.

The first kisses were traded, but not enjoyed mouth to mouth. Instead, Aragorn traced a line of them along Faramir's collar bones, tending with his tongue to the shallow bay just below his throat.

"I love you," he whispered into the night, but intending the words for Aragorn only.

"As I love you," his spouse smiled as he straightened and his hands resettled on Faramir's hips.

"Can we not do this better in bed?" suggested Faramir, suspecting that the chill of night would soon attempt to sneak inside the chamber.

A disappointed look crossed Aragorn's face. "You mean that we should abandon the rug?"

He rolled his eyes at this. "Aragorn, you have been proud of this rug for over two years. Can you not get over it? At the very least, the initial exhilaration?"

The disappointment transformed into a beaming smile, providing Faramir with some information on who Eldarion had inherited his swift changes in mood, and his animated expressions, from.

"But it is a brilliant rug!" Aragorn exclaimed. "We can stand up – undressed – for much longer with it here than we could before. This stone floor really is cold in the winter time."

"Aragorn," Faramir tried again as he shook his head. "I do want to lie down. I will still be unclothed, you know."

The King's eyes narrowed and he slid an open palm across the hip he was currently claiming. "Is that a promise?"

-oooo-

Shiver after shiver ran through him as Aragorn skimmed over his naked chest with his fingers. His spouse's warm breath wafted over his neck and cheek and Faramir's eyes lost their focus as the pleasure augmented. Being now able to sleep on his side as well as on his back, Aragorn had spooned up behind him in a way that always made Faramir feel completely safe. Now, however, what he felt was much more than that.

Aragorn was kissing his hair and murmuring soft words of encouragement as his hand danced over the skin he found underneath the covers. Faramir caught hold of it when it came up to stroke his cheek, and he placed similar kisses on the fingertips while Aragorn's long, content sigh encircled them both.

Still with a light hold on the hand, Faramir twisted carefully in the embrace and met the lips that willingly sank down to his mouth. As his teeth grazed against The King's lower lip, he felt the instinctive thrust of Aragorn's hips, pressing his hardened need into his backside.

"I am all yours," Aragorn mumbled against his mouth as his hand escaped Faramir's grip and slid down towards his young husband's groin.

"Then have me." Faramir smiled into the lazy kiss as Aragorn's hand brushed over his arching member and caused an almost nauseous tingling to stir within him.

The hand left his groin and slid over his hips, leaving him with a burning desire for more. Resting already upon one of the pillows was a half-filled vial of oil, and this one he reached for and offered to Aragorn along with a deep kiss.

As the first finger breached his entrance, Aragorn sunk down to rest his head against Faramir's cheek. "From now on, I sleep only with you." His voice was raspy and caused a new shiver to rush through Faramir's body. "Never think I wanted anything else."

"I know, love. I know."

Faramir breathed deeply as he was carefully stretched. Aragorn's mouth was sporadically placing kisses along his jaw and when he withdrew his fingers, he immediately replaced them with the blunt head of his arousal.

"Make me yours, Aragorn. Once and for all."

His plea was heeded without delay, and as his King slid into him, Faramir was sure his vision filled with the starlight that only appeared to be hidden from view behind the clouds in the night sky.

Aragorn's body moved slowly, nearly covering his own. It was not every day – or night – that his husband had the strength to take him thus, but right now he seemed intent on carrying it out. Faramir would enjoy any pace he chose, as he also did this night. When Aragorn struck the sensitive spot within him, the pulsing through his own erection increased and he pushed back hard. Automatically, his hand sought out it out, eliciting a growl from Aragorn. His husband needed his hands to keep himself steady, but it did not bother Faramir that he had to touch himself as it always served to arouse Aragorn even further.

Faramir's harsh breathing mingled with Aragorn's groans as they drove each other closer to the edge. The younger man forced his eyes to regain focus as Aragorn lost control and spiralled into his release, his beautiful ecstasy painted across his features. He collapsed against the length of Faramir's body, burying his face in the copper hair and using his last strength to join his spouse's hand that was erratically and desperately stroking his still hard member.

Faramir did not know what kind of touch Aragorn applied to him as he was too far gone by now, but he felt himself coming forcefully, madly thrashing underneath the King's body.

"Only you."

Aragorn's words clung to him all the way through the shaky aftermath.

When he finally felt the world settle down around him again, Faramir realised Aragorn had pulled out of him and was now lying on his back with his eyes closed but with a smile on his lips. Nestling closer, Faramir placed his head on his chest and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Content?"

"Very." Aragorn ran a finger along his arm. "You know, you should get up and unlock the door, or Dari will have an awful lot of trouble fighting it in the morning."

"I should do that, you say?" Faramir let go of Aragorn and raised himself up on one elbow.

Aragorn nodded against the pillow. "You are the young and strong one."

"I think you proved your strength excellently only minutes ago," Faramir teased him, happy at seeing the smile widen into a grin.

As it was though, Aragorn was correct, and reluctantly he slipped out of the bed and hastily made for the door, blowing out the candles as he went.

"Now can you see the magnificence of the rug?" Aragorn called after him cheerfully.

"It is splendid. It really warms my back," muttered Faramir.

"I heard that."

Upon returning to the bed, Faramir dove beneath the covers, pressing his chilled body against Aragorn who gave a small cry.

"Cold!"

"See?"

"No," shuddered Aragorn, pulling him closer. "But I can certainly feel. Oh, well… Lucky for you I am here to warm you."

"Lucky me," Faramir smiled into the dark hair.

For a while they lay in silence, listening to the sleepy crackling of the fire and the winds chasing each other outside the windows.

"_Meleth nin_?" Aragorn's voice had taken on a more serious note.

"Yes?"

"I think I have decided on… what to name our daughter."

Faramir nodded. They had agreed on 'Eldarion' and 'Elboron' together, and the children's mother had chosen two more names, one for each of the boys, as she would also do for the girl. However, if Aragorn had already made up his mind this time and did not need Faramir's opinion, it was so. After all, Aragorn was her birthfather.

Now Aragorn turned to face him, his eyes a dark grey in the dim light. There was a slight hint of uncertainty in his expression.

"I would like to name her 'Mirairael'." A small hopeful smile faintly ghosted across his lips. "If that is alright with you?"

Faramir could only look at him, very, very conscious of the enormous tidal wave of love welling up within, and the sudden glaze that filled his husband's eyes. He swallowed.

"I would love that," he whispered.

Dazedly, he leaned closer and placed his lips over Aragorn's. He felt strong arms encircling him and he melted into the embrace.

So many gifts to treasure…

When Aragorn released him, Faramir opened his mouth to speak, to offer some words of thankfulness, but Aragorn only smiled and shook his head. His hand came up and brushed the stray strands of copper-coloured hair from Faramir's forehead.

"Your love means more to me than any words could ever do," he said softly. "Beloved."

So Faramir sank bank into the arms that were his haven, without speaking, but with a joyful heart and a soaring soul.

And Eä held them both safely.

**The End**

**Notes: **I have, as you have no doubt noticed, blended canonical facts with my own imagination.

1. After the War of the Ring, Legolas settled with his Elves of Mirkwood in Ithilien and remained there until Aragorn's death in IV 120. Ithilien became known as the fairest of all the western lands during this time.

2. The names of Aragorn's children:

Eldarion is the name of Aragorn's son by Arwen, meaning 'Descendant of the Eldar'.

Elboron may be the name of Faramir's son by Éowyn, although Tolkien never really presents him to us with absolute certainty. Faramir's grandson, Barahir, is the more famous one.

In this story, the name of Aragorn's daughter Mirairael, is a play on the Sindarin –mir ending of Faramir's name meaning 'jewel', and the Quenya word for copper-coloured, 'aira'. Isn't that fitting so say?

3. Eä is the Universe, brought into being by Ilúvatar. (_Eä! – _Be!)

-oooo-

And here we come to the end. I thank you all so very much for your lovely reviews and comments – I have truly cherished every one of them! If I should, some day, find myself in the dire need of a sequel, it will be named "The Most Grassy Spring" as suggested by Grey Pigeon – for who could ever deny such a terrific title?

Love.

-oooo-

**UPDATE, May 2010:** A one-shot sequel has now been published over at Faramirfiction: 'Tale Telling'. Link on profile page!


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